THE  LIBRARY 
OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 
RIVERSIDE 


LETTERS 


OF 


MLLE.    DE    LESPINASSE 


Mlle.  Julie  de  Lespinasse 


LETTERS     ' 


OF 


MLLE.  DE  LESPINASSE 


litt  Notes  on  \)a  ILiit  ant  CI)aracta: 

BY 

D'ALEMBERT,    MARMONTEL,    DE    GUIBERT,    Etc 

AND 

AN   INTRODUCTION   BY   C.-A.   SAINTE-BEUVE 


TRANSLATED   BY 

KATHARINE    PRESCOIT   WORMELEY. 


BOSTON: 

HARDY,  PRATT    &    COMPANY. 
1903. 


i/yt///  *? 


Copyright  1901, 
By  Hardy,  Pratt  &  Company. 


All  rights   reserved. 


^SnttoErsitg  Press: 
John  Wilson  and  Son,  Cambridge,  U.  S.  A. 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

Introduction.     By  C.-A.  Sainte-Beuve 1 

Notes  on  the  Life  and  Character  of  Mlle.  de  Lespi- 

NASSE.     By  Grimm,  Marmontel,  La  Harpe,  etc.  .     .  21 

Letters  from  Mlle.  de  Lespinasse  to  M.  de  Guibert    .  42 
Portrait  of  Julie-Jeanne-El^onore  de  Lespinasse.     By 

D'Alembert 299 

Eulogy  of  Eliza.     By  M.  de  Guibert 310 

To  the  Manes  of  Mlle.  de  Lespinasse.     By  D'Alembert  326 

Letters  from  Frederick  the   Great,  King  of   Prussia, 
Voltaire,  and  D'Alembert,  on  the  Death  of  Mlle. 

DE  Lespinasse 332 


INTRODUCTION. 

By  C.-A.  SAINTE-BEUVE. 

The  claims  of  Mile,  de  Lespinasse  to  the  attention  of  poster- 
ity are  positive  and  durable.  At  the  moment  of  her  death  she 
was  universally  regretted,  as  having,  without  name,  without 
fortune,  without  beauty,  created  for  herself  the  salon  most 
in  vogue,  most  eagerly  frequented  at  an  epoch  which  counted 
so  many  that  were  brilliant.  Still,  this  flattering  chorus  of 
regi'ets  given  to  the  memory  of  the  friend  of  d'Alembert 
would  have  left  but  a  vague  and  presently  receding  idea  of 
her,  if  the  publication  of  her  Letters,  made  in  1809,  had  not 
revealed  her  under  an  aspect  wholly  different,  and  shown,  no 
longer  the  charmmg  person  dear  to  society,  but  the  woman 
of  heart  and  passion,  the  burning  and  self-consuming  victim. 

This  volume  of  Letters  from  Mile,  de  Lespinasse  to  the 
Comte  de  Guibert  is  one  of  the  most  curious  and  most 
memorable  monuments  to  passion.  In  1820  another  volume, 
under  the  title  of  "  Nouveaux  Lettres  de  Mile,  de  Lespinasse," 
was  published,  which  is  not  hers ;  it  is  unworthy  of  her  mind 
and  of  her  heart ;  being  as  flat  and  insipid  as  the  other 
is  distinguished,  or,  to  say  it  better,  unique.  I  beg-  my  read- 
ers not  to  confound  that  volume  of  1820  (a  speculation  and 
fabrication  of  publishers)  with  the  Letters  given  to  the  world 
in  1809,  the  only  ones  that  deserve  confidence,  and  of  which 
I  desire  to  speak. 

These  love-letters,  addressed  to  M.  de  Guibert,  were  pub- 
lished by  the  widow  of  M.  de  Guibert,  assisted  in  the  work 

1 


2  INTRODUCTION. 

by  Barrfere,  the  Barrfere  of  the  Terror,  neither  more  nor  less, 
who,  as  we  know,  loved  literature,  especially  that  of  senti- 
ment. Wlien  the  Letters  appeared  there  was  great  emotion 
in  society,  several  of  the  friends  of  Mile,  de  Lespinasse  being 
still  alive  at  that  date.  They  deplored  the  indiscreet  publi- 
cation ;  they  blamed  the  conduct  of  the  editors,  who  thus 
dishonoured,  they  said,  the  memory  of  a  woman  until  then 
respected,  and  betrayed  her  secret  to  all,  without  the  right  to 
do  so.  They  appealed  to  both  morality  and  decency ;  they 
invoked  the  very  fame  of  Mile,  de  Lespinasse.  Nevertheless, 
they  eagerly  enjoyed  the  reading  of  the  Letters,  which  far  sur- 
passed in  interest  the  most  ardent  romances,  being,  in  truth,  a 
"  Nouvelle  H(^loise  "  in  action.  To-day  jjosterity,  indifferent 
to  personal  considerations,  sees  only  the  book,  and  classes  it 
in  the  series  of  immortal  paintings  and  testimonies  of  passion, 
of  which  there  is  not  so  great  a  number  that  we  cannot  count 
them.  Antiquity  gives  us  Sappho  for  certain  accents,  certain 
sighs  of  fire  that  come  to  us  athwart  the  ages ;  it  has  given 
us  the  "  Phcedra  "  of  Euripides,  the  "  Magician  "  of  Theocritus, 
the  "  Medea  "  of  Apollonius  of  Ehodes,  the  "  Dido  "  of  Virgil, 
the  "Ariadne"  of  Catullus.  Among  moderns  we  have  the 
Latin  Letters  of  H^loise,  those  of  the  Portuguese  nun, "  Manou 
Lescaut,"  the  "  Ph^dre  "  of  Eacine,  and  a  few  other  rare  pro- 
ductions, among  which  the  Letters  of  Mile,  de  Lespinasse  are 
in  the  first  rank.  Oh !  if  the  late  Barr^re  had  never  done 
worse  in  his  life  than  publish  these  Letters,  if  he  had  had  no 
greater  burden  on  his  conscience  we  would  say  to-day,  absolv- 
ing him  with  all  our  heart,  "  May  the  earth  lie  light  upon 
him ! " 

Here  is  an  anecdote  which  I  possess  from  the  original. 
At  the  time  when  these  Letters  appeared,  a  brilliant  society 
had  gathered  at  the  baths  of  Aix  in  Savoie.  Some  of  the 
party  had  gone  to  visit  Chamb^ry ;  on  their  return  one  of  the 


INTRODUCTION.  3 

carriages  was  occupied  by  Mme.  de  Stael,  Benjamin  Constant, 
Mme.  de  Boigne,  Adrien  de  Montmorency,  etc.  During  the 
drive  a  series  of  accidents  occurred  —  tempest,  thunder  and 
lightning,  hindrances  and  dela}-s  of  all  kinds.  On  arriving 
at  Aix  the  persons  in  the  carriage  found  the  people  of  the 
hotel  grouped  at  the  door,  very  anxious  and  inquiring.  But 
they,  the  travellers,  had  seen  nothing,  and  noticed  nothing 
of  the  accidents  without,  for  Mme.  de  Stael  had  talked  the 
whole  time,  and  her  topic  was  the  Letters  of  Mile,  de  Lespi- 
nasse  and  M.  de  Guibert,  who  had  been  her  own  first  lover. 

The  life  of  Mile,  de  Lespinasse  began  early  in  being  a 
romance,  and  more  than  a  romance.  She  was  the  natural 
daughter  of  the  Comtesse  d'Albon,  a  lady  of  condition  in 
Burgundy,  whose  legitimate  daughter  had  manied  the  brother 
of  the  Marquise  du  Deffand.  It  was  at  the  house  of  this 
brother,  the  Marquis  de  Vichy-Chamrond,  in  Burgundy,  that 
Mme.  du  Deffand  found  the  yoimg  girl,  then  twenty  j'ears  of 
age,  oppressed,  assigned  to  inferior  domestic  duties,  and  kept 
in  a  condition  that  was  wholly  dependent.  She  took  a  fancy 
to  her  at  once ;  or  rather,  they  took  a  fancy  to  each  other,  and 
we  can  readily  conceive  it ;  if  we  look  only  to  the  value  of 
minds,  it  is  seldom  that  chance  brings  together  two  more 
distinguished. 

Mme.  du  Deffand  had  no  peace  until  she  had  drawn  the 
young  girl  from  her  province  and  installed  her  with  herself 
at  the  convent  of  Saint-Joseph,  as  her  companion  and  reader, 
intending  to  make  of  her  a  perpetual  resource.  The  family 
of  the  young  girl's  mother  had,  however,  a  strong  fear, 
namely :  that  she  might  profit  by  her  new  position  and  the 
protectors  she  would  find  in  society  to  claim  the  name  of 
Albon  and  'her  share  of  the  inheritance.  She  might  have 
done  so,  in  fact ;  for  she  was  born  during  the  lifetime  of  M. 
d'Albon,  the  husband  of  her  mother,  and  the  law  recognizes 


4  INTRODUCTION. 

all  such  children  as  legitimate.  Mme.  du  Deffand  thought  it 
right  to  take  precautions,  and  dictated  to  her,  with  little  deli- 
cacy, certain  conditions  on  this  point  before  permitting  her 
to  come  to  her ;  for  one  who  appreciated  so  well  the  young 
girl's  mind  it  was  knowing  very  little  of  her  heart. 

This  arrangement  of  a  life  in  common  was  made  in  1754, 
and  it  lasted  till  1764 :  ten  years  of  household  companion- 
ship and  concord ;  a  long  period,  longer  than  could  have  been 
hoped  between  two  minds  so  equal  in  quality  and  associated 
with  elements  so  impetuous.  But  finally,  Mme.  du  Deft'and, 
who  rose  late  and  was  never  afoot  before  six  in  the  evening, 
discovered  that  her  young  companion  was  receiving  in  her 
private  room,  a  good  hour  earlier,  most  of  her  own  habitual 
visitors,  thus  taking  for  herself  the  first-fruits  of  their  con- 
versation. Mme.  du  Deffand  felt  herself  defrauded  of  her 
most  cherished  rights,  and  uttered  loud  outcries,  as  if  it  were 
a  matter  of  domestic  robbery.  The  storm  was  terrible,  and 
could  only  end  in  a  rupture.  Mile,  de  Lespinasse  left  the 
convent  of  Saint-Joseph  abruptly ;  her  friends  clubbed  to- 
gether to  make  her  a  salon  and  a  subsistence  in  the  rue  de 
Belle-Chasse.  These  friends  were  d'Alembert,  Turgot,  the 
Chevalier  de  Chastellux,  Lom^nie  de  Brienne,  the  future 
archbishop  and  cardinal,  Boisgelin,  Archbishop  of  Aix,  the 
Abb^  de  Boismont,  —  in  short,  the  flower  of  the  minds  of  that 
day.  This  brilliant  colony  followed  the  emigrant  spirit  and 
her  fortunes.  From  that  moment  Mile,  de  Lespinasse  lived 
apart  and  became,  through  her  salon  and  through  her  influ- 
ence on  d'Alembert,  one  of  the  recognized  powers  of  the 
eighteenth  century. 

Happy  days  !  when  all  life  turned  to  sociability ;  when  all 
was  arranged  for  the  gentlest  commerce  of  minds  and  for  the 
best  conversation.  Not  a  vacant  day,  not  a  vacant  hour  !  If 
you  were  a  man  of  letters  and  more  or  less  of  a  philosopher. 


INTRODUCTION.  5 

here  is  the  regular  employment  you  could  make  of  your  week  : 
Sunday  and  Thursday,  dinner  with  Baron  d'Holbach  ;  Mon- 
day and  Wednesday,  dinner  with  Mme.  Geoffrin  ;  Tuesday, 
dinner  with  M.  Helv^tius ;  Friday,  dinner  with  Mme.  Necker. 
I  do  not  mention  the  Sunday  breakfasts  of  the  Abbd  Morellet ; 
those,  I  think,  came  a  little  later.  Mile,  de  Lespinasse,  hav- 
ing no  means  to  give  dinners  and  suppers,  was  punctually 
at  home  from  five  to  nine  o'clock,  and  her  circle  assembled 
every  day  during  those  hours  of  the  "  early  evening." 

What  she  was  as  mistress  of  her  salon  and  as  a  bond  of 
society  before,  and  even  after,  the  invasion  and  delirium  of 
her  fatal  passion,  all  the  Memoirs  of  the  time  will  tell  us. 
She  was  much  attached  to  d'Alembert,  illegitimate  like  her- 
self, who  (like  herself  again)  had  proudly  forborne  to  seek 
for  rights  which  tenderness  had  failed  to  give  him.  D'Alem- 
bert  was  then  lodging  with  his  foster-mother,  the  worthy 
wife  of  a  glazier,  in  the  rue  Michel-le-Comte,  which  was  far 
from  the  rue  de  Belle-Cliasse.  A  serious  illness  seized  him, 
during  which  Mile,  de  Lespinasse  took  care  of  him,  induced 
the  doctors  to  order  him  to  live  in  better  air,  and  finally 
decided  him  to  come  to  her.  From  that  day  they  made  one 
household,  but  in  all  honour  and  propriety,  so  that  no  one 
ever  gossiped  to  the  contrary.  D'AlemberVs  life  became 
much  easier,  and  the  respect  paid  to  Mile,  de  Lespinasse  was 
thereby  increased. 

Mile,  de  Lespinasse  was  not  pretty ;  but  through  mind, 
through  grace,  through  the  gift  of  pleasing,  Nature  had  amply 
compensated  her.  From  the  first  day  when  she  came  to 
Paris  she  seemed  as  much  at  her  ease  and  as  little  provincial 
as  if  she  had  lived  here  all  her  life.  She  profited  by  the  edu- 
cation of  the  excellent  society  that  surrounded  her,  although 
she  had  little  need  to  do  so.  Her  great  art  in  social  life,  one 
of  the  secrets  of  her  success,  was  to  feel  the  minds  of  others, 


6  INTRODUCTION. 

to  make  them  shine,  and  to  seem  to  forget  herself.  Her  con- 
versation was  neitlier  above  nor  below  those  with  whom  she 
talked ;  she  had  the  sense  of  measurement,  proportion,  accu- 
racy. She  reflected  so  well  the  impressions  of  others,  and 
received  so  visibly  the  effect  of  their  minds,  that  others  loved 
her  for  the  success  they  felt  they  had  with  her.  She  raised 
this  method  to  an  art.  "Ah!  how  I  wish,"  she  exclaimed 
one  day,  "  that  I  knew  everybody's  weakness."  D'Alembert 
fastened  on  the  words  and  blamed  them,  as  proceeding  from 
too  great  a  desire  to  please,  and  to  please  every  one.  But  even 
in  that  desire,  and  in  the  means  it  suggested  to  her  she  re- 
mained true,  she  was  sincere.  She  said  of  herself,  in  expla- 
nation of  her  success  with  others  that  she  held  the  "  truth  of 
all  \_le  vrai  de  tout],  while  other  women  held  the  truth  of 
nothing  \lc  vrai  de  rien]." 

In  conversing  she  had  the  gift  of  the  right  word,  the 
instinct  for  the  exact  and  choicest  expression ;  common 
and  trivial  expressions  disgusted  her ;  she  was  shocked,  and 
could  not  recover  herself.  She  was  not  precisely  simple, 
though  very  natural.  It  was  the  same  with  her  clothes. 
"  She  gave,"  some  one  said,  "  an  idea  of  richness  which  by 
taste  and  choice  was  vowed  to  simplicity."  Her  literary 
taste  was  more  lively  \_vif]  than  sure ;  she  loved,  she  adored 
Racine,  as  master  of  the  heart,  but  for  all  that  she  did  not 
like  the  over-finished,  she  preferred  the  rough  and  sketchy. 
Whatever  caught  her  by  an  inward  fibre  excited  and  uplifted 
her ;  she  could  even  have  mercy  on  a  worthless  book  for  one 
or  two  situations  in  it  which  went  to  her  soul.  She  has 
imitated  Sterne  in  a  couple  of  chapters  which  are  worth 
little.  As  a  writer,  where  she  does  not  dream  of  being  one, 
that  is  to  say  Ln  her  Letters,  her  pen  is  clear,  firm,  excellent, 
except  for  a  few  words  such  as  sensitive,  virtuous,  which  are 
repeated  too  often,  and  show  the  influence  of  Je^in-Jacques. 


INTRODUCTION.  7 

But  never  any  commonplaceness,  never  declamation ;  all  is 
from  the  living  spring,  from  nature. 

Let  us  come  at  once  to  her  principal  claim,  to  her  glory 
of  loving  woman.  In  spite  of  her  tender  friendship  for 
d'Alembert,  a  friendship  which  was  doubtless  a  little  more 
at  its  origin,  we  may  say  that  Mile,  de  Lespinasse  loved 
but  twice  in  her  life  :  she  loved  M.  de  Mora  and  M.  de 
Guibert.  It  is  the  struggle  of  these  two  passions,  the  one 
expiring  but  powerful  still,  the  other  whelming-in  and  soon 
to  be  paramount,  it  is  this  violent  and  desperate  combat  which 
constitutes  the  heart-rending  drama  to  which  the  publication 
of  these  Letters  initiates  us.  The  contemporaries  of  Mile, 
de  Lespinasse,  her  nearest  and  best  informed  friends  knew 
nothing  of  it.  Condorcet,  writing  to  Turgot,  often  speaks  of 
her  and  tells  him  of  her  nervous  attacks,  but  without  appear- 
ing to  suspect  their  cause;  those  who,  like  Marmontel, 
divined  some  trouble,  were  wholly  on  the  wrong  scent  as  to 
dates  and  sentiments.  D'Alembert  himself,  so  concerned  in 
seeing  clearly,  knew  the  mystery  only  on  reading  certain 
papers  after  her  death.  Therefore  we  must  seek  the  truth 
as  to  the  secret  sentiments  of  Mile,  de  Lespinasse  from  her 
own  avowals,  from  herself  alone. 

She  had  loved  M.  de  Mora  for  five  or  six  years,  when  she 
met  for  the  first  time  M.  de  Guibert.  The  Marquis  de 
Mora  was  the  son  of  the  Comte  de  Fuent^s,  ambassador  from 
Spain  to  the  Co\u-t  of  France.  All  things  prove  that, 
although  still  young,  he  was  a  man  of  superior  merit  and 
destined  to  a  great  future  had  he  lived.  As  to  this,  we  have 
not  only  the  assurance  of  Mile,  de  Lespinasse,  but  that  of 
others  least  subject  to  infatuation  among  his  contempo- 
raries ;  the  Abbe  Galiani,  for  instance,  learning  in  Naples  of 
his  death,  writes  to  Mme.  d'Epinay  (June  18,  1774):  "I 
dare  not  speak  of  Mora.     I  have  mourned  him  long.     All  is 


8  INTRODUCTION. 

destined  iu  this  world,  and  Spain  was  not  worthy  to  possess 
a  M.  de  Mora."  And  again  (July  8th) :  "  There  are  lives  on 
which  depend  the  fate  of  empires.  Hannibal,  when  he 
heard  of  the  defeat  and  death  of  his  brother  Hasdrubal,  a 
man  of  greater  worth  than  himself,  did  not  weep,  but  he 
said,  '  Now  I  know  what  will  be  the  fate  of  Carthage.'  I 
say  the  same  on  the  death  of  M.  de  ]\Iora." 

M.  de  Mora  came  to  France  about  the  year  1766;  it  was 
then  that  Mile,  de  Lespinasse  knew  him  and  loved  him.  He 
was  absent  at  various  times,  but  always  returned  to  her. 
Finally,  his  lungs  were  attacked  and  his  native  climate  was 
ordered  for  him.  He  left  Paris,  never  to  re-enter  it,  on 
Friday,  August  7,  1772.  Mile,  de  Lespinasse,  philosopher 
and  freethinker  none  the  less,  was  on  one  point  as  supersti- 
tious as  any  Spanish  woman,  as  any  loving  woman ;  and  she 
did  not  fail  to  note  that  having  quitted  Paris  on  a  Friday, 
it  was  on  a 'Friday  also  that  he  left  Madrid  (May  6,  1774), 
and  that  he  died  at  Bordeaux  on  Friday,  the  27th  of  the  same 
month.  When  he  left  Paris  the  passion  of  Mile,  de  Les- 
pinasse for  him  and  that  which  he  returned  to  her  had  never 
been  more  ardent.  An  idea  of  it  may  be  gained  from  the 
fact  that  during  a  journey  which  M.  de  Mora  made  to 
Fontainebleau  in  the  autumn  of  1771  he  wrote  twenty-two 
letters  to  her  in  ten  days  of  absence.  Matters  were  estab- 
lished on  this  tone,  and  the  pair  had  parted  with  every 
promise  and  every  pledge  between  them,  when  Mile,  de  Les- 
pinasse, in  the  month  of  September,  1772,  met  the  Comte 
de  Guibert  for  the  first  time,  at  Moulin-Joh,  the  country- 
house  of  M.  Watelet. 

M.  de  Guibert,  then  about  twenty-nine  years  of  age,  was  a 
young  colonel  for  whom  society  had  lately  roused  itself  to  a 
pitch  of  enthusiasm.  He  had  recently  published  an  "  Essay 
on  Tactics,"  preceded  by  a  survey  of  the  state  of  political  and 


INTRODUCTION.  9 

military  science  in  Europe.  In  it  were  generous,  or  as  we 
should  say  in  these  clays,  advanced  ideas.  He  discussed  the 
great  Frederick's  system  of  war.  He  competed  at  the  Acade- 
my on  subjects  of  patriotic  eulogj- ;  he  had  tragedies  in  his 
desk  on  national  subjects.  "  He  aims  at  nothing  less,"  said 
La  Harpe,  "  than  replacing  Turenne,  Corneille,  and  Bossuet." 
It  would  be  very  easy  at  this  date,  but  not  very  just,  to  make 
a  caricature  of  M.  de  Guibert,  a  man  whom  every  one,  begin- 
ning with  Voltaire,  considered  at  his  dawn  as  vowed  to  glory 
and  grandeur,  and  who  kept  the  pledge  so  insufficiently. 
Abortive  hero  of  that  epoch  of  Louis  XVL  which  gave 
France  naught  but  promises,  M.  de  Guibert  entered  the 
world,  his  head  high  and  on  the  footing  of  a  genius ;  it  was, 
so  to  speak,  his  speciality  to  have  genius,  and  you  will  not 
find  a  writer  of  his  day  who  does  not  use  the  word  in  rela- 
tion to  him.  "  A  soul,"  they  cried,  "  which  springs  on  all 
sides  towards  fame." 

This  was  an  attitude  difficult  to  maintain,  and  the  fall,  at 
last,  was  all  the  more  bitter  to  him.  Let  us  admit,  however, 
that  a  man  who  could  be  loved  to  such  a  point  by  Mile,  de 
Lespuiasse,  and  who,  subsequentl}",  had  the  honour  of  first 
occupying  the  heart  of  Mme.  de  Stael,  must  have  had  those 
eager,  animated  qualities  which  belong  to  personality,  and 
mislead  the  judgment  as  to  deeds  so  long  as  their  father 
is  present.  M.  de  Guibert  had  the  qualities  that  exhilarate, 
excite,  and  impress ;  he  had  his  full  value  in  a  brilliant  cir- 
cle ;  but  he  chilled  quickly  and  was  out  of  place  in  the  bosom 
of  intimacy.  In  the  order  of  sentiments  he  had  the  emotion, 
the  tumult,  the  din  of  passion,  but  not  its  warmth. 

Mile,  de  Lespinasse,  who  ended  by  judging  him  as  he  was 
and  by  estimating  his  just  weight  wrthout  being  able  to 
cease  loving  him,  began,  in  the  first  instance,  by  admiration. 
"  Love,"  it  is  said,  "  begins  usually  by  admhation,  and  it  sur- 


Lb  INTRODUCTION. 

vives  esteem  with  difficulty,  or  rather,  it  does  not  survive  it, 
except  in  prolonging  its  existence  by  convulsions."  Here,  in 
her,  is  the  history  of  that  fatal  passion ;  the  degrees  of  which 
were  so  rapid  that  we  can  scarcely  distinguish  them.  She 
was  then  {must  we  tell  it  ?)  nearly  forty  years  old.  She  was 
bitterly  regretting  the  departure  of  M.  de  Mora  —  that  true 
man  of  delicacy  and  feelmg,  that  truly  superior  man  — 
when  she  involved  herself  in  loving  M.  de  Guibert,  the  false 
great  man,  but  who  was  present  and  seductive.  Her  first 
letter  is  dated  Saturday  evening,  May  15,  1773.  M.  de  Gui- 
bert was  about  to  start  on  a  long  journey  through  Germany, 
Prussia,  and,  possibly,  Russia.  We  have  his  own  printed 
"  Relation "  of  this  journey,  and  it  is  curious  to  put  these 
witty,  practical,  often  instructive  and  sometimes  emphatic  and 
sentimental  notes  side  by  side  with  the  letters  of  his  ardent 
friend.  Before  he  departs  he  has  already  done  her  some 
wrong.  He  had  said  he  would  leave  Tuesday,  May  18th, 
then  Wednesday,  but  he  did  not  start  till  Thursday,  the  20th, 
and  his  friend  knew  nothing  of  it.  It  is  evident  that  she 
was  not  the  one  to  receive  his  last  thought,  his  last  farewell. 
She  suffers  already,  and  blames  herself  for  suffering ;  she  has 
just  received  a  letter  from  M.  de  Mora,  full  of  confidence  in 
her  love  ;  she  is  ready  to  sacrifice  everything  to  him,  "  but," 
she  adds,  "  for  the  last  two  months  I  have  had  no  sacrifice  to 
make  to  him."  She  thinks  she  still  loves  M.  de  Mora ;  that 
she  can  stop  and  immolate  at  will  the  new  feeling  which  de- 
taclies  and  drags  her  away  from  him.  M.  de  Mora  absent, 
ill,  faithful,  writes  to  her,  and  each  letter  reopens  her  wound 
and  quickens  her  remorse.  What  will  it  be  when,  returning 
to  her,  he  falls  ill  and  dies  on  his  way  at  Bordeaux  ?  Thus, 
until  the  end,  we  find  her  torn  in  her  delirium  between  the 
need,  the  desire  to  die  for  M.  de  Mora,  and  the  desire  to  live 
for  M.  de  Guibert.     "  Do  you  conceive,  mo7i  ami,  the  species 


INTRODUCTION.  11 

of  torture  to  which  I  am  condemned  ?  I  have  remorse  for 
what  I  give  you,  and  regrets  for  what  I  am  forced  to  with- 
hold."    But  this  is  only  the  beginning  of  it  all.^ 

M.  de  Guibert,  who  is  much  in  vogue,  and  something  of  a 
coxcomb,  leaves  behind  him,  when  he  goes  upon  his  journey, 
more  than  one  regret,  ^^^e  tind  there  are  two  women,  one 
whom  he  loves,  who  responds  but  little,  the  other  who  loves 
him,  but  does  not  occupy  him  much. 

Mile,  de  Lespinasse  takes  an  interest  in  these  persons,  in 
one  especially,  and  she  tries  to  glide  between  the  two.  But 
what  of  that  ?  when  the  heart  loves  utterly  it  is  not  proud, 
and  she  tells  herself,  with  Felix  in  "  Polyeucte," — 

"I  enter  upon  feelings  that  are  not  believable; 
Some  I  have  are  violent,  others  are  pitiable, 
I  have  even  some  .  .  ." 

She  dares  not  conclude  with  Corneille,  "  some  that  are  base." 
She  asks  to  be  given  a  place  apart,  for  herself ;  she  does  not 
yet  know  what  place. 

"  Let  us  decide  our  ranks"  she  says.  "  Give  me  my  place, 
but,  as  I  do  not  like  to  change,  give  me  a  good  one.  I  do 
not  wish  that  of  this  unhappy  woman,  who  is  displeased  with 
you  ;  nor  that  of  the  other,  with  whom  you  are  displeased. 
I  do  not  know  where  you  will  place  me,  but  do  so,  if  possible, 
that  we  may  both  be  content :  do  not  bargain ;  grant  me 
much ;  you  shall  see  that  I  will  not  abuse  it.  Oh  !  you 
shall  see  that  I  know  how  to  love !  I  can  but  love,  I  know 
only  how  to  love." 

Here  begins  the  eternal  note,  and  it  never  ceases.     To  love 

1  The  Letters  are  addressed  tliroughout  to  "  men  ami,"  which  cannot 
here  be  translated  as  "  my  friend : "  the  consonants  themselves  forbid  it, 
also  the  limited  meaning  of  the  English  word  in  its  general  use.  Conse- 
quently; the  soft  French  word,  with  more  love  in  it,  is  retained  in  the 
following  translation. — Tr, 


12  INTRODUCTION.  * 

—  that  is  her  lot.  Phsedra,  Sappho,  and  Dido  had  none  more 
complete,  more  fatal.  Slie  deceives  herself  when  she  says : 
"  I  have  a  strength,  or  a  faculty,  which  makes  me  equal  to 
everything  :  it  is  that  of  knowing  how  to  suffer,  and  to  suffer 
much  without  complaint."  She  knows  how  to  suffer,  but  she 
does  complain,  she  cries  aloud,  slie  passes  in  the  twinkling  of 
an  eye  from  exaltation  to  dejection  :  "  What  shall  I  say  to 
you  ?  the  excess  of  my  inconsistency  bewilders  my  mind,  and 
the  weight  of  life  is  crushing  my  soul.  What  must  I  do  ? 
What  shall  I  become  ?  Will  it  be  Charenton  or  the  grave 
that  shall  deliver  me  from  myself  ? " 

She  counts  the  letters  she  receives ;  her  life  depends  on  the 
postman :  "  There  is  a  certain  carrier  who  for  the  last  year 
gives  fever  to  my  soul."     To  calm  herself  while  waiting  and 
expecting,  to  obtain  the  sleep  that  flees  her,  she  finds  nothing 
better  than  recourse  to  opium,  of  which  we  find  her  doubling 
the  doses  with  the  progress  of  her  woe.     \^^iat  matters  to 
her  the  destiny  of  other  women,  those  women  of  society,  wdio 
"  for  the  most  part  feel  no  need  of  being  loved ;  all  they  want 
is  to  be  jyre.f erred  "  ?     As  for  her,  what  she  wants  is  to  be 
loved,  or  rather,  to  love,  even  without  return  :     "  You  do  not 
know  all  that  I  am  worth  ;  reflect  that  I  can  suffer  and  die ; 
judge  from  that  if  I  resemble  those  other  women,  who  know 
how  to  please  and  amuse."     In  vain  does  she  cry  out  now 
and  then  :   "  Oh  !  I  hate  you  for  giving  me  the  knowledge  of 
hope,  fear,  pain,  pleasure ;  I    did  not  need  those  emotions ; 
why  did  you  not  leave  me  in  peace  ?     My  soul  had  no  need  to 
love ;  it  was  filled  by  a  tender  sentiment,  deep,  and  shared, 
responded  to,  though  sorrowful  in  parting.     It  was  the  impul- 
sion of  that  soiTOW  that  took  me  to  you ;     I  meant  that  you 
should  please  me  only,  but  you  did  more ;  in  consoling  me 
you  bound  me  to  you."     In  vain  does  she  curse  the  violent 
feeling  which  has  taken  the  place  of  an  equable  and  gentler 


INTRODUCTION.  13 

sentiment ;  her  soul  is  so  grasped,  so  ardent  that  she  cannot 
keep  from  transports,  as  it  were,  of  intoxication :  "  I  live,  I 
exist  with  such  force  that  there  are  moments  when  I  find 
myself  loving  to  madness  and  to  my  own  misery." 

So  long  as  M.  de  Guibert  is  absent  she  restrains  herself  a 
little  —  if  it  can  be  called  restraint.  He  returns,  however,  at 
the  end  of  October,  1773,  after  being  distinguished  by  the  great 
Frederick  and  taking  part  in  the  manoeuvres  of  the  camp  in 
Silesia ;  thus  acquiring  a  fresh  resplendency.  Here,  with  a 
little  attention,  it  is  impossible  not  to  note  a  decisive  moment, 
a  moment  we  must  veil,  which  corresponds  to  that  of  the 
grotto  in  Dido's  episode.  ^  A  year  later,  in  a  letter  from  Mile, 
de  Lespinasse  dated  midnight  (1775)  we  find  these  words, 
which  leave  but  little  room  for  doubt :  "  It  was  on  the  10th 
of  February  of  last  year  (1774)  that  I  was  intoxicated  by  a 
poison  the  effect  of  which  lasts  to  this  day.  .  .  ."  She 
continues  this  delirious  and  doleful  commemoration,  in  which 
the  image,  the  spectre,  of  M.  de  Mora,  dying  on  his  way  to 
her,  mingles  with  the  nearer  and  more  charming  image  which 
wraps  her  in  a  fatal  attraction. 

From  this  moment  passion  is  at  its  height,  and  there  is 
scarcely  a  page  in  the  Letters  that  is  not  all  flame.  Scrupu- 
lous persons,  though  they  read  and  relish  them,  blame  M.  de 
Guibert  severely  for  not  having  returned  them  to  j\Ille.  de 
Lespinasse,  who  frequently  asked  for  them.     It  appears,  in 

1  Her  letters  do  not  seem  to  bear  out  this  conclusion.  The  close  intimacy 
with  the  personality  of  a  writer  that  comes,  in  the  work  of  translation, 
from  the  necessary  scrutiny  of  his  or  her  words  and  thoughts  and  habitual 
method  of  expressing  them  gives  —  to  the  translator  at  least  —  ground  for 
doubting  this  opinion.  It  may  be  true ;  but  a  Frenchman's  mind,  even 
that  of  Sainte-Beuve,  seems  unable  to  escape  from  this  line  of  judgment. 
If  it  is  not  true,  tlie  soul's  tragedy  is  far  greater.  IMUe.  de  Lespinasse 
uses  plain,  clear  language,  which  reveals  tlie  passion  of  her  nature  simply ; 
when  she  speaks  of  "remorse  "  for  her  infidelity  to  M.  de  Mora,  she  is  ex- 
pressing the  extreme,  perliaps  excessive,  honour,  delicacy,  and  sensitiveness 
of  her  spirit.  —  Tr. 


14  INTRODUCTION. 

fact,  that  order  and  attention  were  not  among  the  number  of 
M.  de  Guibert's  good  qualities ;  he  takes  no  care  of  his  friend's 
letters :  he  mingles  them  with  his  other  papers,  he  drops  them 
from  his  pocket  by  mistake,  while  at  the  same  time  he  forgets 
to  seal  his  own.  Sometimes  he  returns  them  to  her,  bu.t 
among  the  number  returned  some  are  not  hers  !  In  that  we 
see  M.  de  Guibert  undisguised.  Nevertheless,  I  do  not  know 
why  he  should  be  held  responsible  and  guilty  to-day  for  the 
pleasure  we  derive  from  these  Letters.  He  doubtless  returned 
many,  and  many  were  destroyed.  But  Mile,  de  Lespinasse 
wrote  many.  It  is  but  a  handful,  preserved  by  chance,  which 
have  come  to  us.  What  matter  ?  the  thread  of  the  stor}^  is 
there,  and  it  suffices.  Throughout,  they  are  almost  one  and 
the  same  letter,  ever  novel,  ever  unexpected,  beginning 
afresh. 

Amid  their  anguish,  their  plaints,  one  word,  the  divine 
eternal  word,  returns  again  and  again  and  redeems  all. 
Here  is  one  of  her  letters  in  two  lines  which  says  more 
than  many  words  :  — 

"From  every  instant  of  my  life,  1774. 
"Mon  ami,  —  I  suffer,  I  love  you,  I  await  you." 

It  is  very  rare  in  France  to  meet  (pushed  to  this  degree) 
with  the  class  of  passion  and  "  sacred  ill "  of  which  Mile,  de 
Lespinasse  was  the  victim.  This  is  not  a  reproach  that  I 
make  —  God  forbid  !  —  to  the  amiable  women  of  our  nation ; 
it  is  a  simple  remark,  which  others  have  made  before  me.  A 
moralist  of  the  eighteenth  century  who  knew  his  times,  M. 
de  Meilhan,  has  said,  "  In  France,  great  passions  are  as  rare 
as  great  men."  M.  de  Mora  declared  that  even  the  Spanish 
women  could  not  enter  into  comparison  with  his  friend. 
"  Oh  !  they  are  not  worthy  to  be  your  pupils,"  he  tells  her 
constantly ;  "  your  soul  was  warmed  by  the  sun  of  Lima,  but 


INTRODUCTION.  15 

my  compatriots  seem  born  beneath  the  snows  of  Lapland." 
And  it  was  from  Madrid  that  he  wrote  it !  He  found  her 
comparable  to  none  but  a  Peruvian,  daughter  of  the  Sun. 
"  To  love  and  suffer,"  she  cries, "  Heaven  or  Hell ;  to  that  I 
would  vow  myself;  it  is  that  I  would  feel;  that  is  the 
climate  I  desire  to  inhahit ; "  and  she  pities  the  women 
who  live  and  vegetate  in  a  milder  air  and  flirt  their  fans 
around  her.  "I  have  known  only  the  climate  of  Hell, 
rarely  that  of  Heaven."  "  Ah  !  my  God ! "  she  says  again, 
"  how  natural  passion  is  to  me,  and  how  foreign  is  reason ! 
Mon  ami,  never  did  any  one  reveal  herself  with  such 
abandonment."  It  is  this  abandonment,  this  total  unre- 
serve which  is  the  interest  and  the  excuse  of  the  mental 
situation,  the  sincerest  and  the  most  deplorable  that  ever 
betrayed  itself  to  the  eye. 

This  situation  of  soul  is  so  visibly  deplorable  that  we  may 
look  upon  it,  I  think,  without  danger ;  so  inherent  is  the  sense 
of  malady,  so  plainly  do  delirium,  frenzy,  agony  disclose  them- 
selves pell-mell.  While  admiring  a  nature  capable  of  this 
powerful  manner  of  feelmg,  we  are  tempted  as  we  read  to 
pray  that  Heaven  would  turn  from  us  and  from  those  we 
love  so  invincible  a  fatality,  so  terrible  a  thunderbolt.  I  shall 
try  to  note  the  course  of  this  passion,  as  much,  at  least,  as  it 
is  possible  to  note  down  that  which  was  irregularity  and 
contradiction  itself. 

Before  the  journey  of  M.  de  Guibert  to  German}^,  Mile,  de 
Lespinasse  loved  him,  but  had  not  yielded  to  her  love.  She 
admired  him,  she  was  filled  with  enthusiasm,  already  she 
suftered  cruelly  and  made  poison  of  everything.  He  returns, 
she  intoxicates  herself,  she  yields ;  then  follows  remorse ;  she 
judges  him  correctly ;  she  sees  with  terror  his  indifference ; 
she  sees  him  as  he  is  —  a  man  of  flourish,  of  vanity,  of  suc- 
cess ;  not  a  man  for  intimacy,  having,  above  all,  a  need  for 


16  INTRODUCTION. 

expansion;  excited,  animated  by  things  from  without,  but 
never  deeply  emotional. 

But  of  what  use  is  it  to  become  clear-sighted  ?  Did  a 
woman's  mind,  great  as  it  may  be,  ever  check  her  heart  ? 
"  The  mind  of  most  women  serves  to  strengthen  their  folly 
rather  than  their  reason  ! "  La  Kochefoucauld  says  that,  and 
Mile,  de  Lespinasse  proves  the  truth  of  it.  She  continued  to 
love  M.  de  Guibert,  all  the  while  judging  him.  She  suffers 
more  and  more ;  she  appeals  to  him  and  chides  him  with  a 
mixture  of  irritation  and  tenderness  :  "  Fill  my  soul,  or  cease 
to  torture  it ;  make  me  to  love  you  always,  or  to  be  as  though 
I  had  never  loved  you  —  in  short,  do  the  impossible;  calm 
me,  or  I  die  ! " 

Instead  of  that,  he  harms  her ;  with  his  natural  careless- 
ness he  finds  a  way  to  wound  even  her  self-love.  She  compares 
him  to  M.  de  Mora ;  she  blushes  for  him,  for  herself,  at  the 
difference  between  them :  "  And  it  is  you  who  have  made 
me  guilty  towards  that  man !  the  thought  revolts  my  soul, 
and  I  turn  away  from  it."  Repentance,  hatred,  jealousy,  re- 
morse, contempt  of  herself,  and  sometimes  of  him  —  she  suf- 
fers at  all  moments  the  tortures  of  the  damned.  To  deaden 
them,  to  distract  her  mind,  to  make  truce  with  her  sufferings, 
she  has  recourse  to  many  things.  She  tries  "  Tancrfede," 
which  touches  her ;  she  thinks  it  beautiful,  but  nothing  is 
on  the  key  of  her  own  soul.  She  has  recourse  to  opium  to 
suspend  her  life  and  numb  her  sensibilities.  Sometimes 
she  makes  a  resolution  to  no  longer  open  the  letters  she 
receives ;  she  keeps  one,  sealed,  for  six  days.  There  are 
days,  weeks,  when  she  thinks  herself  almost  cured,  re- 
stored to  reason,  to  calmness ;  she  extols  reason  and  its 
sweetness  ;  but  her  calmness  is  merely  an  illusion.  Her 
passion  counterfeited  death  only  to  revive  more  ardent, 
more  inflamed  than  ever.     She  regrets  no   longer  her   de- 


INTRODUCTION.  17 

ceitful,  insipid  calmness.  "  I  lived,"  she  says, "  but  I  seemed 
to  be  apart  from  myself."  She  tells  M.  de  Guibert  that  she 
hates  him,  but  we  know  what  that  means :  "  You  know  well 
that  when  I  hate  you  it  is  that  I  love  you  to  a  degree  of  pas- 
sion that  overthrows  my  reason." 

Her  life  is  thus  passed  in  loving,  hating,  fainting,  reviving, 
dying ;  that  is  to  say,  in  ever  loving.  Each  crisis  ends  by 
a  pardon,  a  reconciliation,  a  closer  and  more  violent  clasp. 
M.  de  Guibert  thinks  of  his  fortune  and  his  establishment ; 
she  concerns  herself  with  them  for  his  sake.  Yes,  she  con- 
cerns herself  about  his  marriage.  When  he  marries  (for  he 
has  the  face  to  many  in  the  very  midst  of  this  passion)  she 
takes  an  interest  in  it ;  she  praises  the  young  wife,  whom  she 
meets.  Alas !  it  may  be  to  that  generous  praise  that  we  owe 
the  preservation  of  these  Letters,  which  ought  in  those  rival 
hands  to  have  been  annihilated.  It  might  be  supposed  that 
this  marriage  of  M.  de  Guibert  would  end  all ;  the  noble,  de- 
mented soul  thinks  so  herself ;  but  no  !  passion  laughs  at 
social  impossibilities  and  barriers.  She  continues,  therefore, 
in  spite  of  all,  to  love  M.  de  Guibert,  without  asking  more  of 
him  than  to  let  himself  be  loved=  After  many  struggles, 
the  last  day  finds  their  intercourse  restored  as  though 
nothing  had  been  broken  between  them.  But  she  feels  her- 
self dying ;  she  redoubles  the  use  of  opium ;  she  desires  to 
live  only  from  day  to  day,  without  a  future  —  has  passion  a 
future  ?  "  I  feel  the  need  of  being  loved  to-day,  and  only  to- 
day ;  let  us  blot  from  our  dictionary  the  words  '  alwaj^s ' 
and  '  forever.' " 

The  last  of  these  Letters  are  but  a  piercing  cry,  with  rare 
intermissions.  One  could  scarcely  imagine  into  what  inex- 
haustible forms  she  puts  the  same  sentiment;  the  river  of 
fire  o'erflows  at  every  step  in  flashing  torrents.  Let  us  give 
the  summary  in  her  own  language :  — 

2 


18  INTRODUCTION. 

"  All  these  many  contradictions,  these  many  impulses  are 
true,  and  three  words  explain  them :  /  love  you." 

Eemark  that  amid  this,  life  of  exhaustion  and  delirium, 
Mile,  de  Lespinasse  is  in  society ;  she  receives  lier  friends  as 
usual ;  she  amazes  them  at  times  by  her  variable  humour, 
but  they  attribute  this  change  to  her  regrets  at  the  absence, 
and  then  at  the  death,  of  M.  de  Mora.  "  They  do  me  the 
honour  to  believe  that  I  am  crushed  by  the  loss  that  1  have 
met  with."  They  praised  her  and  admired  her  for  it,  which 
redoubled  her  shame.  Poor  d'Alembert,  who  li\^ed  in  the 
same  house,  endeavoured  vainly  to  console  her,  to  amuse  her ; 
he  never  comprehended  why  she  repulsed  him  now  and  then 
with  a  sort  of  horror.  Alas !  it  was  the  horror  she  felt  at 
her  own  dissimulation  with  such  a  friend.  The  long  agony 
had  its  ending  at  last.  She  died  on  the  23d  of  May,  1776, 
at  the  age  of  forty-three  years  and  six  months.  Her 
passion  for  M.  de  Guibert  had  lasted  for  more  than  three 
years. 

Amid  this  consuming  passion,  which  seems  as  though  it 
could  admit  no  other  element,  do  not  suppose  that  these  Let- 
ters fail  to  show  the  charming  mind  which  was  joined  to  this 
noble  heart.  What  delicate  jesting  as  she  writes  of  the 
"good"  Condorcet,  the  Chevalier  de  Chastellux,  Chamfort, 
and  others  of  her  society !  What  gi-ace !  Lofty  and  gen- 
erous sentiments,  patriotism  and  virility  of  views,  are  re- 
vealed in  more  places  than  one,  and  make  us  appreciate 
the  worthy  friend  of  Turgot  and  of  Malesherbes.  When  she 
talks  with  Lord  Shelburne  she  feels  what  is  grand  and  vivi- 
fying for  thought  in  being  born  under  a  free  Government : 
"  How  can  we  not  be  grieved  at  being  born  under  a  Govern- 
ment like  ours  ?  As  for  me,  weak  and  unhappy  creature 
that  I  am,  if  I  were  born  again,  I  would  rather  be  the  lowest 
member  of  the  House  of  Commons  than  the  King  of  Prussia 


INTRODUCTION.  19 

himself."  Little  disposed  as  she  was  to  augur  any  good 
of  the  future,  she  has  a  moment  of  transport  and  hope 
when  she  sees  her  friends  made  ministers  and  putting 
their  hands  bravely  to  the  work  of  public  regeneration. 
But  even  then,  what  is  it  that  preoccupies  her  most  ? 
She  orders  her  letters  from  M.  de  Guibert  to  be  brought  to 
her  wherever  she  may  be,  —  at  Mme.  Geoffrin's,  at  M.  Tur- 
got's  even,  at  table,  and  during  dinner.  "  What  are  you 
reading  so  earnestly  ? "  asked  a  neighbour,  the  inquisitive 
Mme.  de  Boufflers.  "  Is  it  some  paper  for  M.  Turgot  ? " 
"  Precisely,  madame,"  she  replies ;  "  it  is  a  memorial  I  must 
give  him  presently,  and  I  wish  to  read  it  before  I  give  it 
to  him." 

Thus,  all  things  in  her  life  relate  to  passion,  all  things 
bring  her  back  to  it ;  and  it  is  passion  alone  which  gives  us 
the  key  to  this  strange  heart  and  struggling  destiny.  The 
incalculable  merit  of  the  Letters  of  Mile,  de  Lespinasse  is 
that  we  do  not  find  in  them  what  we  find  in  books  and 
novels ;  here  we  have  the  pure  drama  of  nature,  such  as  it 
reveals  itself,  now  and  then,  in  certain  gifted  beings ;  the 
surface  of  life  is  suddenly  torn  apart  and  the  life  itself  is 
bared  to  us.  It  is  impossible  to  encounter  such  beings, 
victims  of  a  sacred  passion  and  capable  of  so  generous  a  woe, 
without  being  moved  to  a  sentiment  of  respect  and  admi- 
ration in  the  midst  of  the  profound  pity  which  they  inspire. 
Nevertheless,  if  we  are  wise  we  shall  not  envy  them ;  we 
shall  prefer  a  calmer  interest,  gently  quickened ;  we  shall 
cross  the  Tuileries  (as  she  did  one  beautiful  sunny  morning) 
and  say  with  her :  "  Oh !  how  lovely !  how  divine  this 
weather !  the  air  I  breathe  is  calming  —  I  love,  I  regret, 
I  desire,  but  all  those  sentiments  have  won  the  imprint  of 
sweetness  and  melancholy.  Ah  !  this  manner  of  feeling  has 
greater  charm  than  the  ardour  and  throes  of  passion  !     Yes, 


20  INTRODUCTION. 

I  believe  I  am  disgusted  with  them  ;  I  will  no  longer  love 
so  forcibly  ;  I  will  love  gently  —  "  Yet  a  moment  later  she 
adds,  "  but  never  feebly."  The  pangs  are  seizing  her  again. 
Ah,  no !  those  who  have  tasted  that  poison  once  are  never 
cured. 


NOTES 

ON  THE   LIFE   AND   CHARACTER   OF   MLLE.   DE 
LESPINASSE. 

The  mysteries  surrounding  Mile,  de  Lespinasse  from  her 
birth  to  her  grave,  and  beyond  it,  have  given  rise  to  so  many 
false  conjectures  that  it  seems  well  to  bring  together  the 
undoubted  facts  of  her  life,  disengaged  from  such  conjectures 
and  from  those  statements  of  her  nearest  friends  which  are 
now  known  to  have  been  mistaken. 

The  following  Notes  are  taken  from  the  Introduction 
written  by  M.  Eugfeue  Assd  for  his  edition  of  the  "  Letters  " 
published  in  1876,  and  from  the  letters  and  other  writings 
of  her  friends  published  in  the  same  volume,  also  from  :  — 

The  "  (Euvres  "  of  d'Alembert.     Paris.     An  xiii  (1805). 

The  "  Memoires  "  of  Marmontel.     Paris.     1804. 

The  "  Correspondence  Litteraire "  of  La  Harpe  and  of 
Grimm.     Paris.     1804  and  1830. 

The  "  (Euvres  "  of  Condorcet.     Paris.     1847-9. 

The  "  Memoires  "  of  the  Abbe  de  Morellet. 

The  "  (Euvres  "  of  Mme.  de  Stael. 

The  "Tombeau  de  Mile,  de  Lespinasse,"  edited  by  the 
Bibliophile  Jacob  (M.  Paul  Lacroix).     1879. 

Julie- Jeanne-file onore  de  Lespinasse  was  born  at  Lyon  on 
the  18th  of  November,  1732.  It  was  not  without  good  reason 
that  she  compared  her  birth  and  her  early  years  to  the  most 
affecting   pages  of  the  novels  of  Richardson  or  the  Abbd 


22  -  NOTES. 

Provost.  She  owed  her  life  to  a  guilty  connection  formed 
by  the  Coratesse  d'Albon ;  and  it  was  only  by  concealing,  at 
least  from  strangers,  the  secret  of  this  origin  that  her  mother 
was  able  to  keep  her  with  her  and  to  treat  her,  if  not  publicly, 
at  any  rate  in  reality,  as  her  daughter,  and  perhaps  as  her 
best-loved  child. 

About  this  mystery  which  surrounded  the  life  and  youth 
of  Mile,  de  Lespinasse,  her  contemporaries  gathered  only 
uncertain  and  often  contradictory  rumours.  Grimm,  and 
even  La  Harpe  and  Marmontel,  who  knew  her  intimately,  do 
not  agree  in  their  narratives.  At  the  period  when  they  wrote 
nothing  was  clearly  known  of  those  early  years ;  to-day  it  is 
otherwise,  and  the  testimony  of  Mme.  du  Deffand,  a  connec- 
tion of  the  d'Albon  family,  and  that  of  M.  de  Guibert,  who 
not  only  received  the  confidences  of  Mile,  de  Lespinasse,  but 
to  whom  she  read  the  narrative  she  had  herself  written  on 
this  period  of  her  life,  enable  us  to  rectify  all  errors. 

Mile,  de  Lespinasse  was  brought  up  by  her  mother,  from 
whom  she  received  a  solid  and  even  brilliant  education,  as  to 
which  all  her  contemporaries  are  agreed.  The  tenderness  of 
the  mother  went  so  far  as  to  think  of  having  her  recog- 
nized as  a  legitimate  daughter.  Mme.  du  Deffand,  relating, 
in  a  letter  to  the  Duchesse  de  Luynes,  her  first  meeting  with 
the  young  girl  at  the  chateau  de  Chamrond,  belonging  to  her 
(Mme.  du  Deffand's)  brother,  the  Marquis  de  Vichy-Cham- 
rond,  who  had  married  the  legitimate  and  eldest  daughter  of 
Mme.  d'Albon,  speaks  of  her  as  "  a  person  who  has  no  relatives 
who  acknowledge  her,  or  at  any  rate  none  who  will,  or  ought 
to  acknowledge  her.  This,"  she  adds,  "  will  show  you  her  posi- 
tion. I  foimd  her  at  Chamrond,  where  she  has  lived  since 
the  death  of  Mme.  d'Albon  (the  mother  of  my  sister-in-law), 
who  had  brought  her  u})  and,  in  spite  of  her  youth,  had  given 
her  marks  of  the  greatest  friendship."     Elsewhere  she  says 


NOTES.  23 

that  the  girl  had  passed  her  early  years  with  the  son  of  Mme. 
d'Albon,  the  Vicomte  d'Albon.  We  may  suppose  that  those 
years  were  spent  in  the  ancient  manor  of  Avranches,  situated 
on  the  road  from  Eoanne  to  Lyon,  a  patrimonial  domain  of 
the  d'Albons  which  her  mother,  the  last  representative  of  that 
branch  of  the  family,  inherited  from  her  father,  the  Marquis 
de  Saint-Forgeux,  in  1729. 

The  painful  and  almost  tragic  scenes  which,  it  is  only  too 
true,  darkened  the  young  girl's  youth,  took  place  undoubtedly 
during  the  first  months  after  her  mother's  death  and,  more 
especially,  during  the  five  years  from  1747  to  1752,  which 
she  passed  at  Chamrond  wdth  the  Marquise  de  Vichy,  legiti- 
mate daughter  of  the  Comtesse  d'Albon.  The  youngs  girl 
had  accepted  the  proposal  to  live  there,  believing  that  she 
would  be  treated  as  a  friend.  She  was  almost  immediately 
made  governess  to  the  children,  three  in  number,  the  eldest 
being  scarcely  eight  years  old.  But  the  bitterness  of  her 
position  came  much  less  from  the  humble  duties  she  was 
required  to  perform  than  from  the  manner  in  which  she  was 
treated.  When  Mme.  du  Deffand  went  to  pass  the  summer 
of  1752  at  Chamrond  with  her  brother  and  sister-in-law,  she 
noticed  the  intelligence  and  the  charm  of  Mile,  de  Les- 
pinasse,  and  was  also  struck  by  the  air  of  sadness  which 
dimmed  her  face.  Soon  she  obtained  her  confidence.  "  She 
told  me,"  says  Mme.  du  Deffand,  "  that  it  was  no  longer  pos- 
sible for  her  to  remain  with  M.  and  Mme.  de  Vichy;  that 
she  had  long  borne  the  harshest  and  most  humiliating  treat- 
ment ;  that  her  patience  was  now  at  an  end,  and  for  more 
than  a  year  she  had  declared  to  Mme.  de  Vichy  that  she 
must  go  away,  being  unable  to  bear  any  longer  the  scenes 
that  were  made  to  her  daily." 

Nevertheless,  the  conduct  of  Mile,  de  Lespinasse  on  the 
death  of  her  mother  had  been  such  as  ought  to  have  won  her 


24  NOTES. 

not  only  the  esteem  and  respect,  but  the  affection  of  those 
who,  by  blood  if  not  by  law,  were  her  brother  and  sister. 
'Put  in  possession  of  a  large  sum  of  money  by  her  dying 
mother,  who  intended  to  have  secured  to  her  a  rich  future, 
she  had  generously  and  spontaneously  given  it  to  the 
Vicomte  d'Albon,  thus  reducing  herself  to  the  modest 
income  of  a  hvmdred  crowns  left  to  her  by  the  will  of 
her  mother. 

Mile,  de  Lespinasse  had  resolved  to  fling  herself  into  a 
convent  rather  than  remain  longer  with  the  Vichys,  when 
Mme.  du  Deffand,  now  nearly  blind  and  seeking  a  com- 
panion, proposed  to  the  young  girl  to  live  with  lier  in  Paris, 
in  that  convent  of  Saint-Joseph  which,  with  nothing  cloistral 
about  it,  served  (like  the  Abbaye-aux-Bois  in  our  own  day) 
as  a  decent  but  very  worldly  retreat  for  a  small  number  of 
women  of  rank,  in  which  each  had  her  separate  and  inde- 
pendent suite  of  rooms.  It  was  in  October,  1752,  that  Mme. 
du  Deffand  made  this  proposal  to  Mile,  de  Lespinasse,  but  it 
was  not  until  sixteen  months  later,  in  April,  1754,  that 
the  latter  was  able  to  accept  an  offer  she  had  welcomed 
eagerly.  She  spent  those  months  in  a  convent  at  Lyon, 
under  the  friendly  eye  and  protection  of  Cardinal  de  Tencin. 
The  delay  was  caused  by  futile  efforts  to  obtain  the  con- 
sent of  the  Vicomte  dAlbon  and  Mme.  de  Vichy  to  the  new 
arrangement.  Filled  with  incurable  distrust,  the  brother 
and  sister  refused  to  sanction  a  project  which  they  regarded 
as  a  menace  to  their  prosperity ;  although  Mme.  du  Deffand 
had  taken  upon  herself  the  care  of  avoiding  that  danger  by 
exacting  from  Mile,  de  Lespinasse  a  pledge  never  to  use  her 
new  position  to  establish  lier  rights  to  the  name  and  to  a 
share  in  the  fortime  of  the  d'Albon  family.  The  following 
extracts  from  the  letters  of  Mme.  du  Deffand  throw  light  on 
this  period :  — 


NOTES.  25 

Frovi  Mme.  la  Marquise  du  Deffand  to  Mile,  de  Lespinasse. 

Paris,  February  13,  1754. 

I  am  very  glad,  my  queen,  that  you  are  satisfied  with  my  letters 
and  also  with  the  course  which  you  have  taken  towards  M.  d'Albon. 
I  am  convinced  that  he  will  resolve  on  securing  you  a  pension;  he 
would  be  stoned  by  every  one  if  he  did  otherwise.  In  case  he  re- 
fuses, you  obtain  entire  freedom  to  follow  your  own  will,  which  I 
trust  will  bring  you  to  live  with  me.  But  examine  yourself  well, 
my  queen,  and  be  very  sure  that  you  will  not  repent.  In  your 
last  letter  you  wrote  me  very  tender  and  flattering  things  ;  but 
remember  that  you  did  not  think  the  same  only  two  or  three 
months  ago  ;  you  then  confessed  to  me  that  you  were  frightened  at 
the  dull  life  I  made  you  foresee,  —  a  life  which,  although  you  are 
accustomed  to  it,  would  be  more  intolerable  in  the  midst  of  the 
great  world  than  it  has  been  in  your  seclusion ;  you  feared,  you 
said,  to  fall  into  a  state  of  discouragement,  which  would  render  you 
intolerable,  and  inspire  me  with  disgust  and  repentance.  Those 
were  your  expressions;  you  thought  them  a  fault  which  required 
my  pardon,  and  you  begged  me  to  forget  them ;  but,  my  queen,  it 
is  not  a  fault  to  speak  our  thoughts,  and  explain  our  dispositions ; 
on  the  contrary,  we  can  do  nothing  better.  ...  I  shall  treat  you 
not  only  with  politeness,  but  even  with  compliments  before  the 
world,  to  accustom  it  to  the  consideration  it  ought  to  have  for  you. 
...  I  shall  not  have  the  air  of  seeking  to  introduce  you ;  I  expect 
to  make  you  desired ;  and  if  you  know  me  well,  you  need  have  no 
anxiety  as  to  the  manner  in  which  I  shall  treat  your  self-love. 
But  you  must  rely  on  the  knowledge  that  I  have  of  the  world.  .  .  , 

There  is  a  second  point  on  which  I  must  explain  myself  to  you ; 
it  is  that  the  slightest  artifice,  or  even  the  most  trifling  little  art, 
if  you  were  to  put  it  into  your  conduct,  would  be  intolerable  to 
me.  I  am  naturally  distrustful,  and  all  those  in  whom  I  detect 
slyness  become  suspicious  to  me  to  the  point  of  no  longer  feeling 
the  slightest  confidence  in  them.  I  have  two  intimate  friends, 
Formont  and  d'Alembert;  I  love  them  passionately,  but  less  for 
their  agreeable  charms  and  their  friendship  for  me  than  for  their 
absolute  truthfulness.  Therefore,  you  must,  my  queen,  resolve 
to  live  with  me  with  the  utmost  truth  and  sincerity,  and  never 


26  NOTES. 

use  insinuation,  nor  any  exaggeration ;  in  a  word,  n^vax  deviate^ 
and  never  lose  one  of  the  greatest  charms  of  youth,  which  is 
candour.  You  have  much  intelligence,  you  have  gaiety,  you  are 
capable  of  feelings ;  with  all  these  qualities  you  will  be  charming 
so  long  as  you  let  yourself  go  to  your  natural  impulse,  and  are 
without  pretension  and  without  subterfuge.  .  .  . 

March  29,  1754. 

.  ,  .  Another  favour  I  have  to  ask  of  you  (and  it  is  the  most 
important  of  all),  namely:  not  to  come  to  me  unless  you  have 
totally  forgotten  who  you  are,  and  unless  you  have  made  a  firm 
resolution  never  to  think  of  changing  your  civil  state.  It  would 
be  perfidy  to  make  use  of  my  friendship  to  cover  me  with  shame, 
to  expose  me  to  the  blame  of  all  honourable  persons,  to  make  my 
family  my  relentless  enemies.  The  slightest  attempt  of  this  kind 
that  you  might  make  while  living  with  me  would  be  an  unpardon- 
able crime.  I  hope,  my  queen,  that  you  liave  no  need  to  consult 
yourself  again  on  this  point.  It  is  long  since  you  promised  me  all 
I  could  desire  on  this  subject.  I  am  perfectly  certain  that  any 
such  attempt  would  be  in  vain ;  but  it  would,  none  the  less,  be 
dreadful  for  me  if  you  made  one,  and  I  repeat  that  I  should  never 
forgive  it.   .  .  . 

April  8,  1754. 

...  I  hope,  my  queen,  that  I  shall  have  no  reason  to  repent 
what  I  do  for  you ;  and  that  you  will  not  come  to  me  unless  you 
are  fully  decided  to  make  no  attempt  [to  change  your  social  state]. 
You  know  but  too  well  how  useless  such  efforts  are ;  but  in  future, 
when  living  with  me,  they  would  be  fatal  to  you,  for  the  grief  they 
would  cause  me  would  draw  down  upon  you  powerful  enemies, 
and  you  would  find  yourself  in  a  state  of  abandonment  in  which 
there  would  be  no  resource. 

That  said,  there  remains  only  to  tell  you  of  the  joy  I  shall  have 
in  seeing  you  and  in  living  with  you.  I  shall  write  at  once  to 
M.  le  Cardinal  to  beg  him  to  start  you  from  Lyon  as  soon  as 
possible.   .   .   . 

Adieu,  my  queen;  pack  yoiir  trunks  and  come  to  be  the  happi- 
ness and  consolation  of  my  life ;  it  does  not  depend  on  me  to  make 
it  reciprocal. 


NOTES.  27 

Mile,  de  Lespinasse  was  twenty-two  years  of  age  when 
she  came  to  take  the  situation  thus  foreshadowed.  Mme. 
du  Deffand  was  fifty-seven,  and  already  nearly  blind.  Long 
since  celebrated  for  her  wit,  she  was  beginning  to  be  so 
for  her  salon,  where,  side  by  side  with  men  of  letters,  were 
found  all  that  aristocracy  could  then  present  that  was  most 
distinguished  for  taste  and  intellect.  Mile.  de.  Lespinasse, 
on  her  first  entrance  to  a  world  so  new  to  her,  was  not  out  of 
place.  Her  tact,  her  intelligence  won  all  suffrages ;  we  find 
the  proof  of  it  in  the  praises  bestowed  upon  her  by  such  good 
judges  as  the  Chevalier  d'Aydie,  the  Prince  de  Beauvau,  and 
President  H^nault.  The  qualities  she  may  have  lacked  she 
soon  acquired  by  contact  with  the  most  polished  society  that 
ever  existed.  "  See  what  an  education  I  received  ! "  she  says 
herself.  "  Mme.  du  Deffand,  President  Hdnault,  the  Abb^ 
Bon,  the  Archbishop  of  Toulouse,  the  Archbishop  of  Aix, 
M.  Turgot,  M.  d'Alembert,  the  Abbe  de  Boismont,  —  these 
are  the  persons  who  taught  me  to  speak  and  to  think,  and 
who  have  deigned  to  consider  me  as  something." 

This  life  in  common  lasted  ten  years,  from  1754  to  1764. 
Begun  imder  such  auspices,  for  what  reason  did  it  become 
a  burden  to  the  one  who  proposed  it  and  to  the  other  who 
accepted  it  ?  How  came  it  to  end  in  an  open  rupture  which 
had  all  the  importance  of  an  event,  and  actually  divided, 
almost  into  two  camps,  the  society  of  that  day  ?  Evidently 
there  were  faults  on  both  sides :  Mme.  du  Deffand  abusing 
the  superiority  which  her  rank  and  her  role  as  protectress 
gave  her  over  Mile,  de  Lespinasse ;  and  the  latter  allowing, 
little  by  little,  indifference  and  coldness  to  take  the  place  of 
her  early  interest  and  zeal.  But  the  true  determining  cause 
of  the  rupture  was  the  rivalry,  the  jealousy  perhaps,  which 
grew  up  between  the  two  women.  We  recall  Mme.  du  Def- 
f and's  words  in  the  foregoing  letter :  "  There  is  a  point  on 


28  NOTES. 

which  I  must  explain  myself  to  you.  The  slightest  artifice, 
even  the  most  trifling  little  art,  in  your  conduct  would  be 
intolerable  to  me." 

That  art,  that  artifice,  Mile,  de  Lespinasse  was  guilty  of  in 
the  eyes  of  her  protectress  —  let  us  use  the  true  word,  mis- 
tress —  on  the  day  when  she  received  in  her  own  little  room, 
privately  and,  as  it  were,  secretly,  the  most  illustrious  friends 
of  the  marquise,  Turgot,  Marmontel,  d'Alembert,  —  d'Alem- 
bert  of  all  others  !  the  favourite  of  Mme.  du  Deffand  !  When 
the  latter,  who  slept  till  evening  wearied  with  her  late  hours, 
discovered  this  fact  her  anger  broke  forth  into  violent  re- 
proaches. "  It  was  nothing  less  to  her  mind,"  says  Marmon- 
tel, "  than  treachery ;  she  uttered  loud  outcries,  accusing  the 
poor  girl  of  stealing  her  friends,  and  declaring  she  would  no 
longer  warm  that  serpent  in  her  bosom." 

This  abrupt  separation  left  Mile,  de  Lespinasse  without 
resources,  reduced  to  the  paltry  income  of  a  hundred  crowns 
which  her  mother  had  left  her  in  her  will.  But  she  had 
friends,  and  they  did  not  fail  her.  Not  only  did  d'Alembert 
(whom  Mme.  du  Deffand  compelled  to  choose  between  her- 
self and  Mile,  de  Lespinasse)  not  hesitate  to  boldly  take  the 
part  of  the  latter,  not  only  did  all  those  who  might  be  called 
her  intimates  —  Turgot,  Chastellux,  Marmontel,  the  Comte 
d'Anldzy,  the  Duchesse  de  Chatillon  —  stand  by  her,  without 
at  the  same  time  breaking  wholly  with  her  rival,  but  the 
special  friends  of  Mme.  du  Deffand,  those  who  remained  witli 
her  to  the  last,  did  not  refrain  from  giving  to  Mile,  de 
Lespinasse  the  most  touching  and  practical  marks  of  inter- 
est. It  was  felt,  moreover,  that  she  was  already  a  power, 
and  society  desired  not  to  quarrel  with  a  rising  sovereign, 

"  All  the  friends  of  Mme.  du  Deffand,"  says  Marmontel, 
"  became  hers.  It  was  easy  to  convince  them  that  the  anger 
of  the  former  was  unjust.     President  H^nault  himself  de- 


NOTES.  29 

clared  for  her.  The  Buchesse  de  Luxembourg  blamed  her 
old  friend  openly,  and  made  a  present  to  Mile,  de  Lespinasse 
of  the  complete  furniture  of  the  apartment  she  had  hired ; 
and  the  Due  de  Choiseul  obtained  for  her  from  the  king  an 
annual  sum  which  put  her  above  actual  need." 

In  quitting  Mme.  du  Deffand,  Mile,  de  Lespinasse  did 
not  exile  herself  from  the  faubourg  Saint-Germain;  she 
established  her  new  home  not  far  from  the  convent  of  Saint- 
Joseph,  in  the  street,  and  close  to  the  convent,  of  Belle- 
Chasse.  Installed  in  this  apartment,  which,  though  modest, 
must  have  been  almost  vast  to  receive  the  visitors  who 
pressed  there  in  greater  numbers  daily,  she  was  not  long 
alone ;  a  year  later  d'Alembert  joined  her,  thus  associating 
his  life  definitely  with  that  of  a  woman  whom  he  had  loved 
for  eight  years,  and  by  whom  he  thought  himself  beloved. 

"  They  lived  very  far  apart,"  says  Marmontel ;  "  and  though 
in  bad  weather  it  was  difficult  for  d'Alembert  to  return  at 
night  from  the  rue  de  Belle-Chasse  to  the  rue  Michel-le- 
Comte,  where  his  foster-mother  lived,  he  never  thought  of 
quitting  the  latter  until  he  fell  ill  of  putrid  fever,  for  which 
the  first  remedy  is  pure  and  free  air.  His  physician,  Bou- 
vard,  became  imeasy  and  declared  to  us  that  his  present 
lodging  might  be  fatal  to  him.  Watelet  offered  him  his 
house  near  the  boulevard  du  Temple ;  there  he  was  taken, 
and  Mile,  de  Lespinasse,  in  spite  of  all  that  might  be  said  or 
thought,  went  to  nurse  him.  No  one,  however,  thought  or 
said  anything  but  good  of  her  action,  D'Alembert  recovered, 
and  then,  consecrating  his  life  to  her  who  had  taken  care  of 
him,  he  went  to  live  in  the  same  house.  Nothing  more  inno- 
cent than  their  intimacy,  therefore  it  was  respected ;  malig- 
nity itself  never  attacked  it;  and  the  consideration  which 
Mile,  de  Lespinasse  enjoyed,  far  from  suffering  any  shock, 
was  only  the  more  honourably  and  publicly  established." 


30  NOTES. 

We  must  not  exaggerate  the  character  of  this  union,  which 
was  restricted  solely,  on  the  jjart  of  d'Alembert,  to  "  lodging 
in  the  same  house,"  in  which  there  were  ten  other  families, 
Mile,  de  Lespinasse  always  maintaining  her  separate  suite 
of  rooms. 

The  question  here  arises  as  to  the  nature  of  d'Alembert's 
feelings  for  his  friend.  "  Oh  !  you,"  he  cries  after  her  death, 
"  whom  I  have  so  tenderly  and  constantly  loved,  and  by 
whom  I  believed  that  I  was  loved."  Elsewhere  he  speaks 
of  liis  "  heart  which  has  never  ceased  to  be  hers."  And  yet 
in  spite  of  these  protestations  of  love,  he  rejects,  in  a  letter 
to  Voltaire,  the  very  idea  of  his  marriage :  "  The  person  to 
whom  they  marry  me,  in  the  gazettes,  is  in  truth  a  most 
estimable  person  in  character,  and  formed  by  the  charm  and 
sweetness  of  her  society  to  make  a  husband  happy.  But  she 
is  worthy  of  a  better  establishment  than  mine,  and  there  is 
between  us  neither  marriage  nor  love,  only  reciprocal  esteem 
and  all  the  gentleness  of  friendship." 

Member  of  the  Academy  of  Sciences,  and  also  of  the 
French  Academy,  the  perpetual  secretary  of  which  he  soon 
became,  and  the  recognized  chief  of  the  Encyclopedists, 
d'Alembert  was  not  so  bad  a  match  as  he  chooses  to  say. 
The  truth  is  that  the  love  of  poor  dAlembert  for  his  friend 
was  never  without  a  rival ;  first,  the  Marquis  de  Mora,  whose 
memory  rent  her  soul  with  regret  and  remorse,  and  last,  the 
Comte  de  Guibert,  who,  by  the  passion  he  inspired,  brought 
her  life  to  its  close  in  weakness  and  misery. 

When  Mile,  de  Lespinasse,  ceasing  to  be  a  dependent  in 
the  shadow  of  Mme.  du  Deffand,  opened  her  rival  salon  in 
the  rue  de  Belle-Chasse,  she  was  thirty-two  years  old,  with 
little  or  no  beauty,  but  a  face  of  astonishing  mobility,  on 
which  could  be  read  the  emotions  of  her  soul,  with,  above 
all,  a  suddenness  of  impressions,  a  vivacity  and   charm  of 


NOTES.  31 

mind  which  created  around  her  a  sort  of  atmosphere  of 
enthusiasm  and  sympathy.  Such  are  the  chief  features 
of  the  portrait  which  her  contemporaries  have  left  of  her. 
La  Harpe  speaks  of  her  as  a  person  "  well-made,  with  an 
agreeable  face  before  the  small-pox  spoilt  it."  "  She  was  tall 
and  well-formed,"  says  M.  de  Guibert.  "  I  did  not  know 
her  until  she  was  thirty -eight  years  of  age,  but  her  figure 
was  still  noble  and  full  of  grace.  But  what  she  possessed, 
and  what  distinguished  her  above  all  else,  was  that  first  and 
greatest  charm  of  all,  without  which  beauty  is  but  a  cold 
perfection,  the  charm  of  an  expressive  countenance ;  hers 
had  no  special  character;  it  united  all."  But,  as  often  liap- 
pens  to  persons  for  whom  the  trials  of  life  begin  early,  one 
thing  was  lacking  to  Mile,  de  Lespinasse,  namely,  the  look 
of  youth,  in  which  happiness  plays  so  great  a  part.  "  Her 
face,"  says  Grimm,  "  was  never  young." 

But  her  soul  was  —  ever.  To  Marmontel  it  seemed  "  an 
ardent  soul,  a  fiery  nature,  a  romantic  imagination."  "  She 
was  born,"  says  Grimm,  "  with  nerves  that  were  marvellously 
sensitive.  But  that  sensibility,  which  gave  passion  such 
grasp  upon  her,  made  her  also  accessible  to  all  generous 
emotions  —  enthusiasm  for  the  noble  and  the  good,  indigna- 
tion at  the  bad  and  the  mean."  "  She  was  of  all  styles,"  says 
Guibert ;  "  the  lover  of  what  was  good  !  How  she  enjoyed, 
'how  she  knew  how  to  praise  that  which  pleased  her,  above 
all,  that  which  touched  her  ! "  These  qualities  had  their 
reverse,  namely :  infatuation  and  variability.  D'Alembert 
reproaches  her  for  too  ready  a  credulity,  especially  when 
sentiments  of  a  specially  tender  nature  were  in  question. 
She  herself  speaks  of  that  "  mobility  of  soul  of  which  they 
accuse  me,"  and  admits  it. 

Such  was  her  soul.  As  for  her  mind  :  all  was  natural, 
spontaneous,  of  an   elegant  simplicity  as  far  removed  from 


32  NOTES. 

commonplaceness  as  from  studied  elegance ;  the  most  perfect 
harmony  existed  between  thought  and  expression ;  she  had 
a  solid  education,  leaving  more  to  divine  than  was  shown ; 
a  smiling  good  sense  rather  than  a  downright,  open  gaiety ; 
and  finally,  a  tact  so  perfect  that  she  seemed  to  have  the 
secret  of  all  natures  and  all  susceptibilities.  These  were 
her  salient  traits,  her  most  seductive  endowments.  D'Alem- 
bert  dwells  particularly  on  this  exquisite  tact :  "  What  dis- 
tinguishes you  above  all,"  he  says  to  her,  "  is  the  art  of  say- 
ing to  each  that  which  suits  him;  this  art,  though  little 
common,  is  very  simple  in  you ;  it  consists  in  never  speaking 
of  yourself  to  others,  but  much  of  them."  "  I  have  never 
known,"  says  La  Harpe,  "  a  woman  who  had  more  natural 
wit,  less  desire  to  show  it,  and  more  talent  in  showing  to 
advantage  that  of  others."  And  Marmontel  adds  his  word : 
"  One  of  her  charms  was  the  ardent  nature  that  impas- 
sioned her  language  and  communicated  to  her  opinions  the 
warmth,  the  sympathy,  the  eloquence  of  feeling.  Often,  too, 
with  her,  reason  grew  playful ;  a  gentle  philosophy  allowed 
itself  light  jesting." 

We  can  easily  comprehend  the  influence  that  such  qualities 
of  heart  and  mind  must  have  had  on  the  society  of  that 
period.  And  if  we  add  to  this  personal  influence  of  Mile. 
de  Lespinasse  that  (which  was  very  great)  of  d'Alembert, 
the  recognized  leader  of  the  philosophic  party,  who  added  to 
his  fame  as  a  learned  man  a  literary  renown  which  made  the 
French  Academy  choose  him  as  its  perpetual  secretary,  we 
shall  form  a  correct  idea  of  what  the  salon  of  Mile,  de  Lespi- 
nasse was  —  more  literary  than  that  of  the  Marquise  du 
Deffand,  more  aristocratic  than  that  of  the  bourgeoise  Mme. 
Geoffrin.  The  dinners  and  suppers,  which  held  so  great  a 
place  in  the  fame  of  the  Maecenases  of  that  day,  counted  for 
nothing  in  the  celebrity  of  the  salon  in  the  rue  de  Belle- 


NOTES.  33 

Chasse.  There,  people  talked  from  five  o'clock  to  ten  o'clock 
daily.  We  may  say  that  for  twelve  years,  from  1764  to 
1776,  there  was  not  a  day  when  the  choicest  society  failed 
to  be  there,  and  not  a  day  when  Mile,  de  Lespinasse  failed 
to  receive  it.  Not  for  all  the  world  would  her  friends  have 
missed  these  daily  festivals  of  intellect,  gi-ace,  and  elegance. 

Other  salons  had  their  habitual  guests,  their  reigning  and 
dominating  friends :  with  Mme.  du  Deffand  were  President 
Henault,  Pont  de  Veyle,  the  Prince  de  Beauvau,  the  Choiseuls, 
and  Horace  Walpole,  on  his  too  rare  journeys  to  Paris ;  with 
Mme.  Geoffrin,  Marmontel  and  Antoine  Thomas ;  with  the 
Baron  d'Holbach,  Diderot  and  Grimm ;  but  with  IMlle.  de 
Lespinasse  it  was  not  even  d'Alembert  who  reigned.  In  her 
salon  alone  were  received  on  a  footing  of  perfect  equality, 
without  marked  preference,  all  that  Paris  had  of  most  illus- 
trious in  letters,  sciences,  and  arts.  D'Alembert  was  no  more 
than  an  ordinary  visitor,  iinus  inter  pares.  But  his  talent 
as  a  talker  made  the  place  more  delightful. 

"  His  conversation,"  says  Grimm,  "  offered  all  that  could 
instruct  and  divert  the  mind.  He  lent  himself  with  as  much 
facility  as  good-will  to  whatever  subject  would  please  most 
generally ;  bringing  to  it  an  almost  inexliaustible  fund  of 
ideas,  anecdotes,  and  curious  recollections.  There  was,  I 
may  say,  no  topic,  however  dry  or  frivolous  in  itself,  that  he 
had  not  the  secret  of  making  interesting.  He  spoke  well, 
related  with  much  precision,  and  brought  out  his  point  with 
a  rapidity  which  was  peculiar  to  him.  All  his  humorous 
sayings  have  a  delicate  and  profound  originality." 

Variety  —  such  was  the  special  character  of  the  salon  of 
Mile,  de  Lespinasse;  and  this  is  particularly  shown  in  the 
account  that  Grimm  has  left  of  it. 

"  Without  fortune,  without  birth,  without  beauty,  she  had 
succeeded  in  collecting  around  her  a  very  numerous,  very 

3 


34  NOTES. 

varied,  and  veiy  assiduous  society.  Her  circle  met  daily  from 
five  o'clock  until  nine  in  the  evening.  There  we  were  sure 
to  find  choice  men  of  all  orders  in  the  State,  the  Church, 
the  Court, —  military  men,  foreigners,  and  the  most  dis- 
tinguished men  of  letters.  Every  one  agrees  that  though 
the  name  of  M.  d'Alembert  may  have  drawn  them  thither, 
it  was  she  alone  who  kept  them  there.  Devoted  wholly  to 
the  care  of  preserving  that  society,  of  which  she  was  the  soul 
and  the  charm,  she  subordinated  to  this  purpose  all  her 
tastes  and  all  her  personal  intimacies.  She  seldom  went  to 
the  theatre  or  into  the  coimtry,  and  when  she  did  make  an 
exception  to  this  rule  it  was  an  event  of  which  all  Paris  was 
notified  in  advance.  .  .  .  Politics,  religion,  philosophy,  anec- 
dotes, news,  nothing  was  excluded  from  the  conversation, 
and,  thanks  to  her  care,  tlie  most  trivial  little  narrative 
gained,  as  naturally  as  possible,  the  place  and  notice  it  de- 
served. News  of  all  kinds  was  gathered  there  in  its  first 
freshness." 

No  one  has  better  pictured  than  Marmontel  the  influence 
of  Mile,  de  Lespinasse  on  her  society,  or  made  us  feel  more 
fully  the  sort  of  creative  breath  which,  from  this  chaos, 
brought  forth  a  world  so  brilliant  and  harmonious. 

"  I  do  not  put,"  he  says,  "  among  the  number  of  my  private 
societies  the  assembly  which  gathered  every  evening  in  the 
apartments  of  Mile,  de  Lespinasse,  for  with  the  exception  of 
a  few  friends  of  d'Alembert,  such  as  the  Chevalier  de  Chas- 
tellux,  the  Abbe  Morellet,  Saint-Lambert,  and  myself,  the 
circle  was  formed  of  persons  who  were  not  bound  together. 
She  had  taken  them  liere  and  there  in  society,  but  so  well 
assorted  were  they  that  once  there  they  fell  into  harmony 
like  the  strings  of  an  instrument  touched  by  an  able  hand. 
Following  out  that  comparison,  I  may  say  that  she  played 
the  instrument  with  an  art  that  came  of  genius ;  she  seemed 


NOTES.  35 

to  know  what  tone  each  string  would  yield  before  she  touched 
it ;  I  mean  to  say  that  our  minds  and  our  natures  were  so 
well  known  to  her  that  in  order  to  bring  them  into  play  she 
had  but  to  say  a  word.  Nowhere  was  conversation  more 
lively,  more  brilliant,  or  better  regidated  than  at  her  house. 
It  was  a  rare  phenomenon  indeed,  the  degi-ee  of  tempered, 
equable  heat  which  she  knew  so  well  how  to  maintain, 
sometimes  by  moderating  it,  sometimes  by  quickening  it.  The 
continual  activity  of  her  soul  was  communicated  to  our  souls, 
but  measurably ;  her  imagination  was  the  mainspring,  her 
reason  the  regulator.  Remark  that  the  brains  she  stirred  at 
will  were  neither  feeble  nor  frivolous :  the  Condillacs  and 
Turgots  were  among  them;  d'Alembert  was  like  a  simple, 
docile  child  beside  her.  Her  talent  for  casting  out  a  thought 
and  giving  it  for  discussion  to  men  of  that  class,  her  own 
talent  in  discussing  it  with  precision,  sometimes  with  elo- 
quence, her  talent  for  bringing  forward  new  ideas  and  vary- 
ing the  topic  —  always  with  the  facility  and  ease  of  a  fairy, 
who,  with  one  touch  of  her  wand,  can  change  the  scene  of 
her  enchantment  —  these  talents,  I  say,  were  not  those  of  an 
ordinary  woman.  It  was  not  with  the  follies  of  fashion  and 
vanity  that  daily,  during  four  hours  of  conversation,  without 
languor  and  without  vacuum,  she  knew  how  to  make  herself 
interesting  to  a  wide  circle  of  strong  minds." 

Grimm  insists  on  very  nearly  the  same  traits.  "  She  pos- 
sessed," he  says,  "  in  an  eminent  degree  that  art  so  diffi- 
cult and  SQ  precious, —  of  making  the  best  of  the  minds  of 
others,  of  interesting  them,  and  of  bringing  them  iato  play 
without  any  appearance  of  constraint  or  effort.  She  knew 
how  to  unite  the  different  styles  of  mind,  sometimes  even 
the  most  opposed,  without  appearing  to  take  the  slightest 
pains  to  do  so;  by  a  word,  adroitly  flung  in,  she  sustained 
the  conversation,  animating  and  varying  it  as  she  pleased. 


36  NOTES. 

No  one  knew  better  how  to  do  the  honours  of  her  house;  she 
put  every  one  in  his  place,  and  every  one  was  content  with 
it.  She  had  great  knowledge  of  the  world,  and  that  species 
of  politeness  which  is  most  agreeable ;  I  mean  that  which  has 
the  tone  of  personal  interest." 

There  were  times,  however,  when  the  sensitive  taste  of 
Mile,  de  Lespinasse  was  shocked  and  overcome  by  occasional 
vulgarity  of  manners  or  expression.  Of  this  the  Abbe  Mo- 
rellet  has  left  an  amusing  record  in  his  "  Memoirs." 

"  Mile,  de  Lespinasse,"  he  relates,  "  loving  men  of  intellect 
passionately  and  neglecting  no  means  of  knowing  them  and 
attracting  them  to  her  circle,  ardently  desired  to  know  M.  de 
Buffon.  Mme.  Geoffrin,  agreeing  to  procure  her  that  happi- 
ness, invited  Buffon  to  pass  an  evening  at  her  house.  Behold 
Mile,  de  Lespinasse  in  the  seventh  heaven,  promising  herself 
to  observe  closely  that  celebrated  man,  and  not  lose  a  single 
word  that  issued  from  his  lips.  The  conversation  having  be- 
gun, on  the  part  of  Mile,  de  Lespinasse  by  flattering  compli- 
ments, such  as  she  knew  so  well  how  to  pay,  the  topic  of  the 
art  of  writing  was  brought  up,  and  some  one  remarked,  with 
eulogy,  how  well  M.  de  Buffon  had  united  clearness  with 
loftiness  of  style,  a  union  very  difficult  and  rarely  produced. 
'  Oh,  the  devil ! '  said  M.  de  Buffon,  his  head  high,  his  eyes 
partly  closed,  and  with  an  air  half  silly,  half  inspired : 
'  oh,  the  devil !  when  it  comes  to  clarifying  one's  style, 
that 's  another  pair  of  sleeves.'  At  this  speech,  this  vulgar 
comparison.  Mile,  de  Lespinasse  was  visibly  troubled;  her 
countenance  changed,  she  threw  herself  back  in  her  chair, 
muttering  between  her  teeth,  'Another  pair  of  sleeves! 
clarify  his  style ! '  and  she  did  not  recover  herself  the  whole 
evening." 

But  conversation  alone  was  not  all  that  went  on  in  the 
salon  of  the  rue  de  Belle-Chasse ;  academicians  were  made 


NOTES.  37 

there.  Chastellux  owed  his  election  in  a  great  measure  to 
Mile,  de  Lespinasse.  In  her  last  hours,  already  lying  on  her 
deathbed,  she  secured  that  of  La  Harpc  "  M.  de  La  Harpe" 
says  Bachaumont  in  his  Memoirs,  "was  one  of  her  nurs- 
lings ;  by  her  influence  she  opened  the  doors  of  the  Academy 
to  him  who  is  now  its  secretary.  This  poet  was  the  last  of 
those  whom  she  enabled  to  enter  them."  All  power  has  its 
detractors,  all  royalty  its  envious  carpers,  and  these  cast 
great  blame  on  Mile,  de  Lespinasse  for  caballing,  so  they 
said,  in  the  interests  of  her  friends  and  through  the  influ- 
ence of  d'Alembert,  to  close  the  doors  of  the  Academy  to 
those  who  were  not  her  friends.  Dorat,  whose  style  she  did 
not  like  (and  perhaps  not  his  person),  attributed  to  her  the 
various  checks  his  academic  ambition  had  met  with ;  and  he 
made  himself  the  organ  of  these  accusations  in  two  come- 
dies entitled,  "  Les  Proneurs "  and  "  Merlin  Bel  Esprit." 
Society  came  very  near  seeing  renewed  the  scandal  of  the 
famous  comedy  of  "  Les  Philosophes,"  and  Mile,  de  Les- 
pinasse only  just  escaped  being  acted  on  the  stage  during  her 
lifetime  by  Dorat,  as  Eousseau  had  been  by  Palissot.  With- 
out justifying  Dorat,  ^vhose  comic  muse  was  otherwise  very 
inoffensive,  it  cannot  be  denied  that  Mile,  de  Lespinasse 
played  a  very  great  part  in  all  tlie  Academic  struggles,  and 
that  her  devotion  to  the  ideas  of  d'Alembert  and  the  Ency- 
clopedists, often  carried  her  too  far.  Grimm,  who  men- 
tions the  reproach,  contests  its  justice  without  denying  its 
cause. 

"Her  enemies,"  he  says,"  blamed  her,  very  ridiculously,  for 
being  concerned  in  a  variety  of  affairs  which  were  not  her 
business,  and  for  having  favoured  by  her  intrigues  that  philo- 
sophic despotism  which  the  cabal  of  the  bigots  accused  M. 
d'Alembert  of  exercising  over  the  Academy.  But  why 
should  women,  who  decide  everything  in  France,  not  decide 


38  NOTES. 

also  the  honours  of  literature  ?  .  .  .  M.  Dorat,  who  thinks 
he  has  reason  to  complain  of  her,  has  allowed  himself  to 
take  vengeance  in  a  play  called  'Les  Proneurs.'  Several 
persons  who  have  heard  it  read  think  it  has  more  invention 
and  more  gaiety  than  M.  Dorat  has  put  into  his  other  come- 
dies. The  play  turns  on  a  young  man  whom  they  want  to 
initiate  into  the  mysteries  of  the  modem  philosophy,  and  to 
whom,  in  consequence,  they  teach  the  methods  of  acquirmg 
celebrity  in  the  quickest  manner.  M.  d'Alembert  and  Mile, 
de  Lespinasse  play  the  chief  roles.  The  story  is  told  that 
one  of  their  most  zealous  admirers,  an  old  courtier  who  is 
very  hard  of  hearing,  when  the  plot  of  the  new  play  was 
read  before  him,  seeing  every  one  about  him  ecstatic,  cried 
out,  louder  than  any  of  them,  '  There  now !  that  is  good 
comedy.' " 

We  now  know  the  friends  who  occupied  the  mind  of  Mile, 
de  Lespinasse  ;  we  have  next  to  speak  of  those  who  filled  her 
heart.  .  .  . 

But  here  we  must  turn  to  the  sketch  of  M.  de  Mora  and 
M.  de  Guibert,  and  to  the  picture  of  the  love,  the  passion, 
the  remorse  that  consumed  her  life  contained  in  Sainte- 
Beuve's  essay  which  precedes  these  Notes.  All  further 
analysis  would  be  superfluous,  for  what  can  be  needed 
after  the  sympathetic  but  judicial  insight  of  that  true 
discerner  of  men  and  women  ? 

Nevertheless,  for  a  clear  understanding  of  the  following 
letters,  whicli  are  full  of  allusions  that  need  a  clue,  it  is  well 
to  refer  once  more  to  the  particular  fact  that  underlies  them, 
namely :  the  struggle  in  her  soul  between  her  love  for  M.  de 
Mora  and  her  passion  for  M.  de  Guibert.  All  the  letters  up 
to  the  time  of  M.  de  Mora's  death  have  this  struggle  for 
their  key-note,  —  a  struggle  naturally  full  of  inconsistencies. 
After  his  death  her  remorse  begins,  and,  embittered  by  M.  de 


NOTES.  39 

Guibert's  unfaithfulness  —  which  her  passion  condones  —  it 
kills  her. 

Mile,  de  Lespinasse  possessed  the  mysterious  gift  of  charm, 
a  gift  that  cannot  be  explained  or  analyzed,  a  spiritual  gift, 
not  dependent  on  beauty  or  physical  attraction,  and  one 
which  many  women  exercise  equally  over  men  and  women. 
The  word  "  exercise,"  however,  is  not  applicable  to  it,  for  it 
is  an  unconscious  faculty,  a  gift  bestowed  on  women  which 
they  themselves  are  unable  to  explain ;  some  of  its  elements 
are  easily  defined,  —  such  as  self-unconsciousness,  perception 
of  the  souls  of  others,  —  but  as  a  whole  the  gift  is  mysterious. 
Mile,  de  Lespinasse  had  it  in  an  eminent  degi'ee  imtil  the 
period  of  her  fatal  passion.  Plainly  it  was  a  part  of  the  tie 
between  herself  and  M.  de  Mora,  and  she  never  lost  it  with 
her  circle  of  friends  so  long  as  she  lived,  nor  after  her  death. 
The  story  of  d'Alembert's  attachment  to  her  is  as  full  of  pain 
as  her  own,  and  even  more  pathetic.  His  was  the  passion  of 
friendship,  if  not  of  love ;  and  it  is  difticidt  to  acquit  her  of 
indifference  to  his  feelings,  and  even  of  cruelty,  especially 
in  the  bequest  of  her  correspondence  with  M.  de  Mora,  to  be 
read  and  destroyed  by  him  at  her  death.  Even  Marmontel, 
so  faithful  to  her  himself,  says :  "  Mile,  de  Lespinasse  was 
no  longer  the  same  with  d'Alembert ;  not  only  did  he  have 
to  bear  her  coldness,  but  often  her  fretful  humours  full 
of  gloom  and  bitterness."  She  admits  this  herself,  and  gives 
as  its  excuse  (which  Sainte-Beuve  recognizes)  that  her  soul 
was  wrung  with  remorse  for  the  deception  she  was  practising 
upon  him.  A  true  excuse  no  doubt,  and  one  with  which  we 
ought  to  credit  her ;  but  the  sorrow  and  the  distress  to  him 
were  none  the  less,  and  the  shock  when  he  discovered  the 
truth  after  her  death  was  not  the  more  bearable.  No,  his 
passion  stands  beside  hers  in  this  sad  story,  and  we  cannot 
help  comparing  them.     Hers  has  the  stilrm  rtnd  dranfj  of 


40  NOTES. 

passionate  emotion,  with  fame  to  crown  it:  his  was  silent 
sorrow,  and  he  died  of  it,  unsung. 

Marmontel  leaves  us  no  doubt  that  her  death  was  the  cause 
of  his.  "  D'Alembert,"  he  says,  "  was  unconsoled  and  incon- 
solable for  his  loss.  It  was  then  that  he  buried  himself  in 
the  lodging  given  to  him  in  the  Louvre  as  secretary  of  the 
J-rench  Academy.  I  have  told  elsewhere  how  he  passed  the 
rest  of  his  life.  He  often  complained  to  me  of  the  dreadful 
solitude  into  which  he  had  fallen.  In  vain  I  reminded  him 
of  all  that  he  had  told  me  himself  about  the  change  in  the 
feelings  of  his  friend.  "  Yes,"  he  replied,  "  she  was  changed, 
but  I  was  not ;  she  lived  no  longer  for  me,  but  I  lived  always 
for  her.  Now  that  she  is  gone,  I  know  not  why  I  live.  Ah  ! 
would  that  I  had  still  to  suffer  the  bitter  moments  she  knew 
so  well  how  to  soften  and  make  me  forget !  Do  you  remem- 
ber the  happy  evenings  we  spent  with  her  ?  And  now  — 
what  remains  to  me  ?  Instead  of  herself  when  I  come  home, 
I  find  her  shade.  This  lodging  in  the  Louvre  is  like  a  tomb ; 
I  never  enter  it  except  with  horror." 

D'Alembert  survived  his  friend,  whose  memory  never  left 
him  for  an  instant,  seven  years. 

It  was  on  a  Thursday,  May  23,  1776,  that  death  brought 
to  Mile,  de  Lespinasse  the  rest  for  which  she  longed.  The 
account  that  La  Harpe  has  left  of  this  event  is  perhaps  the 
most  affecting  that  we  have  of  it :  "  During  the  last  days  of 
her  life  she  saw  none  but  her  intimate  friends.  They  were 
all  in  her  chamber  on  the  night  of  her  death  ;  and  all  were 
weeping.  She  had  passed  tlie  last  three  days  in  a  state  of 
exliaustion  that  scarcely  permitted  her  to  speak  aloud.  The 
nurses  revived  her  with  cordials  and  raised  her  in  her  bed. 
*  Do  I  still  live  ? '  she  said.     Those  were  her  last  words." 

The  Letters  of  Mile,  de  Lespinasse  cannot  be  read  and 
judged  by  personal  standards  or  social  convention ;  not  even 


NOTES.  41 

from  the  standpoint  of  our  present  phase  of  human  nature, 
which  a  century  has  changed  from  hers.  There  are  many 
judgments  and  countless  criticisms  that  might  be  made  upon 
her ;  but  the  essential  thing  is  that  here  is  a  human  soul  laid 
bare  in  the  fierce  light  of  the  fire  of  passion,  and  fit  to  stand 
by  the  great  ones  of  her  class,  Sappho,  H^loise,  and  the  un- 
known souls  whose  genius  never  passed  to  words ;  for  this 
passion  of  loving  is  a  form  of  genius. 


LETTERS 


OF 


MLLE.  DE  LESPINASSE  TO 
M.  DE  GUIBERT, 


Paris,  Saturday  evening,  May  15,  1773. 

You  start  on  Tuesday  ;  and  as  I  know  not  the  effect  which 
your  departure  will  have  upon  me,  as  I  know  not  if  I  shall 
have  freedom  or  will  to  write,  I  wish  to  speak  with  you  once 
more  and  assure  myself  of  receiving  news  of  you  from 
Strasburg.  You  must  tell  me  if  you  arrive  there  in  good 
health ;  if  the  movement  of  travelling  has  not  already 
calmed  your  soul.  Not  that  your  soul  is "  ill,  it  suffers  only 
from  the  ills  it  causes ;  and  diversion,  change  of  scene  will 
suffice  to  turn  aside  those  emotions  of  sympathy  which  may 
be  painful  to  you  because  you  are  kind  and  honourable. 
Yes,  you  are  yerj  kind  ;  I  have  just  re-read  your  letter  of  this 
morning ;  it  has  the  sweetness  of  Gestner  joined  to  the  energy 
of  Jean-Jacques.  Eh,  mon  Dieu  !  why  unite  all  that  can 
touch  and  please,  and  why,  above  all,  offer  me  a  blessing  of 
which  I  am  not  worthy,  which  I  have  not  deserved  ? 

No,  no  !  I  do  not  want  your  friendship  ;  it  would  console 
me,  it  would  agitate  me,  and  I  need  rest ;  I  need  to  forget 
you  for  a  time.  I  wish  to  be  sincere  with  you  and  with 
myself ;  and,  in  truth,  in  the  trouble  in  which  I  am  I  fear  to 
be  mistaken ;  perhaps  my  remorse  is  greater  than  my  wrong- 


44  LETTERS  OF  [1773 

doing ;  perhaps  the  alarm  I  have  felt  is  that  which  would 
most  offend  the  one  I  love.  I  have  just  received,  this  instant, 
a  letter  so  full  of  confidence  in  my  feelings  ;  he  speaks  to  me 
of  myself,  of  what  I  think,  of  my  soul,  with  that  degree  of 
knowledge  and  certainty  which  is  uttered  only  when  we 
feel  strongly  and  keenly.  Ah,  mon  Dieu  !  by  what  charm, 
by  what  fatality  have  you  come  to  distract  me  ?  Why  did  I 
not  die  in  the  month  of  September  ?  I  could  have  died  then 
without  regret,  without  the  reproaches  that  I  now  make  to 
myself.  Alas  !  I  feel  it,  I  could  still  die  for  him ;  there  is 
no  interest  of  mine  I  would  not  sacrifice  to  him  —  but  for 
two  months  past  I  have  had  none  to  make ;  I  do  not  love 
more,  but  I  love  better.  Oh !  he  will  pardon  me !  I  had 
suffered  so  much !  my  body,  my  soul  were  so  exhausted  by 
the  long  continuance  of  the  sorrow.  The  news  I  received  of 
him  threw  me  sometimes  into  frenzy.  It  was  then  that  I 
first  saw  you ;  then  that  you  revived  my  soul,  then  that  you 
brought  pleasure  into  it ;  I  know  not  which  was  sweetest,  to 
feel  it,  or  to  owe  it  to  you. 

But  tell  me,  is  this  the  tone  of  friendship,  the  tone  of  con- 
fidence ?  What  is  it  that  is  drawing  me  ?  Make  me  know 
myself ;  aid  me  to  recover  myself  in  a  measure ;  my  soul  is 
convulsed ;  is  it  you,  is  it  your  departure,  what  is  it  that  per- 
secutes me  ?  I  can  no  more.  At  this  moment  I  have 
confidence  in  you,  even  to  abandonment,  but  perhaps  I  shall 
never  speak  to  you  again  of  my  life.  Adieu,  I  shall  see  you 
to-morrow ;  possibly  I  shall  feel  embarrassed  by  what  I  have 
now  written  to  you.  Would  to  heaven  that  you  were  my 
friend,  or  that  I  had  never  known  you  !  Do  you  believe  me  ? 
Will  you  be  my  friend  ?  Think  of  it,  once  only  ;  is  that  too 
much  ? 


1773]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  45 

Sunday,  May  23,  J773. 

If  I  were  young,  pretty,  and  very  charming,  I  should  not  fail 
to  see  much  art  in  your  conduct  to  me ;  but  as  I  am  nothing 
of  all  that,  I  find  a  kindness  and  an  honour  in  it  which  have 
won  you  rights  over  my  soul  forever.  You  have  tilled  it 
with  gratitude,  with  esteem,  with  sensibility,  and  all  other 
feelings  which  give  intimacy  and  confidence  to  intercourse. 
I  cannot  speak  as  well  as  Montaigne  upon  friendship,  but, 
believe  me,  we  shall  feel  it  better.  And  yet,  if  what  Mon- 
taigne says  had  been  in  his  heart,  would  he  have  consented 
to  live  after  the  loss  of  such  a  friend  ? 

But  this  is  not  the  question  here  ;  it  is  of  you,  of  the  grace, 
the  delicacy,  the  timeliness  of  your  quotation.  You  come  to 
my  rescue ;  you  will  not  let  me  blame  myself ;  you  will  not 
suffer  your  memorj-  to  be  a  sad  reproach  to  my  heart,  and, 
perhaps,  an  offence  to  my  self-respect ;  in  a  word,  you  wish 
me  to  enjoy  in  peace  the  friendship  that  you  offer  me  and 
prove  to  me  with  as  much  gentleness  as  gi-ace.  Yes,  I  accept 
it ;  I  make  it  my  blessing ;  it  will  console  me ;  and  if  I  ever 
again  enjoy  your  society  it  will  be  the  pleasure  I  shall  feel 
and  desire  the  most. 

I  hope  you  have  pardoned  me  the  wrong  I  did  not  do. 
You  surely  feel  that  it  is  not  possible  for  me  to  suspect  you  of 
an  impulse  against  kindness  and  honour.  Yet  I  accused  you 
of  it ;  that  meant  nothing,  except  that  I  was  weak  and  cul- 
pable, and,  above  all,  troubled  to  the  point  of  losing  my 
presence  and  freedom  of  mind.  You  see  things  too  well  and 
too  quickly  to  let  me  fear  you  could  mistake  me ;  I  am  well 
assured  that  your  soul  sees  no  reason  to  complain  of  the 
emotions  of  mine. 

I  know  that  you  did  not  start  till  Thursday  at  half-past  five 
o'clock.  I  was  at  your  door,  two  minutes  after  your  departure. 
I  had  sent  in  the  morning  to  inquire  at  what  hour  you  left  on 


46  LETTERS   OF  [1773 

Wednesday  ;  and,  to  my  great  astonishment,  I  learned  that 
you  were  still  in  Paris,  and  it  was  not  known  if  you  would 
start  on  Thursday  even.  I  went  myself  to  learn  if  you  were 
ill ;  and  (what  may  strike  you  as  shocking)  it  seemed  to  me 
that  I  desired  it.  Nevertheless,  with  an  inconsistency  which 
I  will  not  explain  I  felt  comforted  on  learning  that  you  were 
gone.  Yes,  your  departure  has  restored  my  calmness ;  but 
I  feel  more  sad.  You  must  pardon  this,  and  be  satisfied.  I 
do  not  know  if  I  regret  you,  but  1  miss  you  as  my  pleasure ; 
I  believe  that  active  and  sensitive  souls  cling  too  strongly  to 
pleasure.  It  is  not  the  idea  of  the  length  of  your  absence 
that  distresses  me  —  my  thought  does  not  go  so  far ;  it  is 
simply  the  present  that  weighs  upon  my  soul,  depresses, 
saddens  it,  and  scarcely  leaves  it  energy  to  desire  better 
sentiments. 

But  see,  what  honible  selfishnes  !  here  are  three  pages 
full  of  myself ,  and  yet  1  l)elieve  it  is  of  you  that  I  am  think- 
ing ;  at  least  I  feel  I  must  know  how  you  are,  whether  you 
are  well.  When  you  read  this,  how  far  away  you  will  be  ! 
Your  person  may  be  only  three  hundred  leagues  distant,  but 
see  what  strides  your  thought  has  already  made  !  what  new 
objects !  what  ideas !  what  novel  reflections  !  It  seems  to  me 
that  I  am  speaking  now  to  the  mere  shadow  of  you  ;  all  that  I 
know  of  you  has  disappeared ;  scarcely  will  you  find  in  your 
memory  any  traces  of  the  affections  which  agitated  and 
excited  you  during  the  last  days  you  spent  in  Paris;  and  it  is 
best  so.  You  know  how  we  agreed  that  too  great  sensibility 
was  a  mark  of  mediocrity,  and  your  character  commands  you 
to  be  great ;  your  talents  condemn  you  to  celebrity.  Yield 
yourself,  therefore,  to  your  destiny,  and  tell  yourself,  firmly, 
that  you  are  not  made  for  the  soft,  inward  life  that  tender- 
ness and  sentiment  require.  There  is  only  pleasure  and  no 
glory  in  living  for  a  single  object.    When  we  reign  in  one  heart 


1778]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  47 

only  we  cannot  reign  in  public  opinion.  There  are  names 
made  for  history ;  yours  will  one  day  rouse  its  admiration. 
When  I  fill  myself  with  that  thought  the  interest  with  which 
you  inspire  me  is  a  little  moderated.     Adieu. 

Monday,  May  24,  1773. 

What  say  you  to  this  folly  ?  Scarcely  can  I  flatter  myself 
that  you  will  read  me  when  I  overwhelm  you  with  letters ! 
But  you  said  the  other  day  that  we  should  write  at  length  to 
friends,  to  those  who  please  us,  to  those  we  would  like  to 
talk  with.  If  you  spoke  truly,  you  are  obliged  not  only 
to  read  me  with  interest,  but  with  indulgence. 

I  have  just  re-read  my  long  letter ;  mon  Dieu,  how  tiresome 
I  foimd  it !  but  if  I  write  it  over  again  it  will  be  no  better. 
I  feel  myself  predestined  to  be  tiresome  in  more  ways  than 
one.  I  am  sad  and  dull ;  what  can  one  do  with  that  ?  But 
I  have  questions  to  put  to  you ;  answer  them,  and  you  will 
be  very  amiable.  Have  you  received  a  letter  from  Diderot  ? 
He  expects  to  leave  the  6th  of  June ;  thus  you  will  see  him 
in  Eussia.  Why  did  you  not  start  on  Wednesday  ?  Was  it 
to  yourself  or  to  some  one  else  that  you  gave  those  twenty-four 
hours  ?  Have  you  carried  away  with  you  that  book  of  M. 
Thomas  ?  I  hope  so ;  it  has  almost  the  tone  of  your  soul ;  it 
is  noble,  strong,  and  virtuous.  There  are,  no  doubt,  a  few  de- 
fects ;  he  has  corrected  what  was  turgid  and  exaggerated  in 
his  style ;  but  there  is  too  much  analysis  and  enumeration, 
which  fatigue  a  little  —  especially  when  it  costs  us  much  to 
separate  from  an  object  which  fills  our  thoughts.  I  have  been 
obliged  to  stop  reading  it  for  several  days.  ^  It  is  the  post- 
man who  decides,  twice  a  week,  all  the  actions  of  my  life  ; 
yesterday  he  made  reading  impossible  to  me.     I  sought  only 

^  "  Essay  on  the  Cliaracter,  Manners,  Morals,  and  Mind  of  Women  in 
the  different  Ages,"  by  Antoine-Leonard  Thomas,  of  the  French  Academy. 
Paris,  1772. 


48  LETTERS   OF  [1773 

the  letter  I  did  not  receive ;  why  look  for  it  in  M.  Th(jinas  ? 
I  could  not  find  it  there !  Did  you  not  promise  me  news 
from  Strasburg  ?  Are  you  surprised  now  that  you  pledged 
yourself  to  write  to  me  so  often  ?  Have  you  regretted  the 
facility  with  whicli  you  yielded  to  the  interest  and  eager- 
ness shown  to  you  ?  It  is  troublesome  at  a  distance  of 
three  hundred  leagues  to  have  to  act  for  others ;  there  is  no 
pleasure  except  in  following  one's  own  impulse  and  senti- 
ment. See  how  generous  I  am !  I  offer  to  return  your 
promise  if  you  now  find  you  have  made  a  mistake.  Acknowl- 
edge it  to  me,  and  I  assure  you  I  will  not  be  wounded.  Be- 
lieve me,  it  is  only  vanity  that  makes  people  touchy,  and  I 
have  none ;  I  am  merely  a  good  creature,  very  stupid,  very 
simple,  who  loves  the  happiness  and  pleasure  of  those  I  love 
better  than  what  is  mine  or  for  me.  Having  that  knowledge, 
be  at  your  ease ;  write  to  me  "  un  pen,  beaucoup,  pas  du 
tout"  —  but  do  not  fancy  that  I  shall  be  equally  satisfied: 
for  I  have  even  less  indifference  than  vanity.  But  I  have  a 
strength,  or  a  faculty,  which  renders  me  able  for  all :  it  is 
that  of  knowing  how  to  suffer,  and  to  suffer  much  without 
complaint. 

Adieu ;  have  you  reached  this  point  in  my  letter  ?  and  is 
it  not  wearisome  ? 

Sunday,  May  30,  1773. 
I  received,  yesterday,  your  Strasburg  letter;  the  time 
seemed  very  long  since  Wednesday,  19th,  the  day  on  which 
I  received  your  last  sign  of  remembrance ;  that  which  came 
to  me  yesterday  consoled  me  and  did  good  to  my  soul,  which 
needs  to  be  diverted  by  the  entrance  of  a  gentle  sentiment 
to  which  it  can  yield  without  trouble  and  without  remorse. 
Yes,  I  can  now  avow  it  to  myself,  I  can  say  it  to  you  —  I 
care  for  you  tenderly ;  your  absence  gives  me  keen  regrets ; 
but  no  longer  have  I  to  struggle  against  the  feelings  you  in- 


1773]  MLLE.    DE   LESPINASSE.  49 

spire  in  me ;  I  have  seen  clearly  into  my  soul.  Ah  !  the  ex- 
cess of  my  sorrow  justifies  me,  I  am  not  guilty,  and  yet, 
before  long,  I  shall  be  a  victim.  I  thought  to  die  Friday 
on  receiving  a  letter  by  special  courier ;  the  trouble  into 
which  it  threw  me  took  from  me  even  the  power  to  unseal 
it ;  I  was  more  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour  without  moving ; 
my  soul  had  numbed  my  senses.  At  last  I  read  it,  and  I 
found  but  a  part  of  what  I  feared:  I  need  not  tremble  for 
the  life  of  him  I  love. 

But  sheltered  from  the  greatest  of  all  misfortunes,  oh, 
my  God !  how  much  remains  for  me  to  suffer !  how  crushed 
I  feel  beneath  the  weight  of  life !  the  duration  of  ills  is 
more  than  human  strength  can  bear ;  I  feel  but  one  courage, 
often  but  one  need.  Ought  I  not  therefore  to  love  you, 
ought  I  not  to  cherish  your  presence  ?  You  have  had  the 
power  to  divert  my  mind  from  an  anguish  as  sharp  as  it  was 
deep ;  I  await,  I  desire  your  letters.  Yes,  believe  me,  none 
but  the  unhappy  are  worthy  of  friends ;  if  your  soul  had 
never  suffered  never  could  you  have  entered  mine.  I  should 
admire,  I  should  praise  your  talents,  but  I  should  keep  aloof, 
because  I  have  a  sort  of  repugnance  to  that  which  fills  my 
mind  only :  we  must  be  calm  to  think ;  when  excited,  agi- 
tated, we  can  only  feel  and  suffer.  You  tell  me  that  you  are 
shaken  by  regrets,  by  remorse  even ;  that  your  sensibility  is 
all  pain.  I  believe  you,  and  it  grieves  me ;  and  yet,  I  know 
not  why,  the  impression  that  I  receive  from  your  letter  is 
the  contrary  of  that.  There  seems  to  me  a  calmness,  a  re- 
pose and  force  in  all  your  expressions ;  you  appear  to  speak 
of  what  you  have  felt,  not  of  what  you  are  feeling ;  in  short, 
if  I  had  rights,  if  I  were  sensitive,  if  friendship  were  not  such 
a  facile  thing,  I  should  tell  you  that  Strasburg  is  far,  very 
far  from  the  rue  Tarenne. 

President  Montesquieu  asserts  that  climate  has  a  great  in- 


50  LETTERS  OF  [177.3 

fluence  on  the  moral  condition ;  is  Strasburg  more  northerly 
than  Paris  ?  Think  how  much  I  shall  have  to  fear  Peters- 
burg !  —  No,  I  will  not  fear ;  I  Ijelieve  in  you ;  I  believe  in 
your  friendship.  Explain  to  me  why  I  have  this  confidence, 
but  be  careful  not  to  think  that  vanity  counts  for  anything. 
My  feeling  for  you  is  purged  of  that  vile  alloy  which  cor- 
rupts and  enfeebles  all  affections. 

You  would  have  been  very  amiable  had  you  told  me 
whether  my  letter  was  the  only  one  you  found  in  Strasburg. 
See  liow  generous  I  am.  I  could  be  willing  that  it  were 
changed  for  the  one  you  wished  to  find  there.  Let  us  decide 
our  ranks,  give  me  my  place ;  but  as  I  do  not  like  to  change, 
let  it  be  a  good  one.  I  do  not  want  that  of  the  unhappy  per- 
son who  is  displeased  with  you,  nor  that  of  her  with  whom 
you  are  displeased.  I  know  not  where  you  can  place  me; 
but  do  so  if  possible,  that  we  may  both  be  content ;  do  not 
bargain,  give  me  much,  you  will  see  that  I  shall  not  abuse  it. 
Oh !  you  shall  see  how  well  I  know  how  to  love !  I  can 
only  love ;  I  know  only  how  to  love  !  With  moderate  facul- 
ties, we  can  yet  do  much  when  we  centre  them  on  a  single 
object.  Well !  I  have  but  one  thought,  and  that  thought 
fills  my  soul  and  all  my  life. 

You  think  that  dissipation  and  new  scenes  and  knowledge 
will  distract  you  but  little  from  your  friends.  Know  your- 
self better ;  yield  in  good  faith  and  with  good  grace  to  the 
power  which  your  nature  has  over  your  will,  over  your  senti- 
ments, over  all  your  actions.  Persons  who  are  governed  by 
the  need  to  love  do  not  go  to  Petersburg.  They  may  go  very 
far,  but  if  so,  they  are  condemned  to  it,  and  they  do  not  say 
that  they  "  re-enter  their  souls "  to  find  there  what  they 
love ;  they  believe  they  have  never  quitted  it,  be  they  a 
thousand  leagues  away.  But  there  is  more  than  one  man- 
ner of  being  good  and  excellent ;  yours  will  carry  you  far 


1773]  MLLE    DE  LESPINASSE.      .  51 

along  in  the  path  of  advancement  in  every  acceptation  of 
those  words. 

I  should  pity  a  sensitive  woman  to  whom  you  would  be 
the  first  object ;  her  life  would  be  consumed  by  fears  and  re- 
grets ;  but  I  should  congratulate  a  vain  woman,  a  proud 
woman :  she  would  pass  her  life  in  applauding  you,  in  adorn- 
ing herself  to  your  taste.  Such  women  love  glory,  they  love 
the  opinion  of  the  world,  and  lustre.  All  that  is  very  fine, 
very  noble,  but  very  cold,  and  very  far  from  the  passion 
which  says :  — 

"  Death  and  Hell  appear  before  me  ; 
Raniire  !  joyfully  I  go  there  for  thee." 

But  I  am  distracted  —  worse  than  that,  I  am  singular; 
I  have  but  one  tone,  one  colour,  one  manner  ;  and  when  they 
please  no  longer  they  chill  and  weary.  You  must  tell  me 
which  of  the  two  effects  they  have  produced.  But  you  must 
also  tell  me,  if  you  please,  the  only  news  that  interests 
me,  namely,  how  you  are. 

The  place  of  governor  of  the  Ecole  Militaire  is  not  yet 
given. 

June  6,  1773. 

Ah  !  how  rare  is  that  which  gives  pleasure,  and  how 
slowly  it  comes !  time  seems  infinite  since  the  24th,  and  I 
know  not  how  much  longer  I  shall  have  to  wait  for  a  letter 
from  Dresden.  But,  at  least,  will  you  promise  to  be  in- 
clined to  write  to  me  as  often  as  you  can  ?  Let  me  have, 
opposed  to  my  pleasure,  against  my  interests,  only  that 
which  does  not  depend  on  you  :  I  mean  distance  and  the  de- 
lay of  couriers.  But  I  fret  lest  your  curiosity,  your  activity, 
in  a  word,  your  merits  and  your  virtues  should  be  against  me. 
That  love  of  glory,  for  instance,  will  make  your  love,  or 
rather  my  own,  one  sorrow  the  more  in  my  life.  Yet  you 
can  say  to  me,  as  the  hermit  said  to  Zadig,  "  I  have  some- 


52  .  LETTERS   OF  [1773 

times  poured  comfort  into  the  souls  of  the  sorrowful."  Yes, 
I  owe  to  you  that  which  makes  the  charm  and  the  sweetness 
of  friendship;  I  feel  that  the  tie  is  already  too  strong,  that  it 
takes  too  great  an  ascendancy  over  my  soul ;  when  my  soul 
suffers  it  is  tempted  to  turn  to  you  for  consolation ;  if  it 
were  calm  and  unoccupied  it  might  be  drawn  to  you  by  an 
impulse  more  active,  by  a  desire  for  pleasure,  even. 

Am  I  so  much  to  you  ?  Am  I  not  better  fitted  to  love 
and  regret  you  ?  At  best,  my  sentiments  can  only  be  agree- 
able to  you ;  but  to  me,  before  I  examined  your  character, 
you  were  already  necessary  to  me.  But  what  think  you  of 
a  soul  that  gives  itself  before  knowing  whether  it  will  be 
accepted,  before  being  able  to  judge  whether  it  will  be  re- 
ceived with  pleasure  or  with  gratitude  only  ?  Ah !  mon 
Dien  !  if  you  were  not  gifted  with  feeling,  what  grief  you 
would  cause  me  !  For  it  does  not  suffice  me  that  you  are 
honourable  :  I  have  virtuous  friends,  I  have  letter  still ;  and 
yet  I  care  only  for  what  you  are  to  me  —  but  truly,  sincerely, 
is  there  no  madness,  perhaps  even  absurdity,  in  believing 
you  my  friend  ?     Answer  me  ;  not  coldly,  but  with  truth. 

Though  your  soul  is  agitated,  it  is  not  ill  like  mine,  which 
passes  ceaselessly  from  convulsion  to  depression.  I  can 
judge  of  nothmg ;  I  mislead  myself  continually  •,  I  take 
poison  to  calm  me.  You  see  I  cannot  guide  myself;  en- 
lighten me,  strengthen  me.  I  will  believe  you  ;  you  shall  be 
my  support ;  you  shall  succour  me  like  reflection  itself,  which 
is  no  longer  at  my  service.  I  know  not  how  to  foresee.  I 
can  distinguish  nothing.  Conceive  my  trouble.  I  can  rest 
only  on  the  idea  of  death ;  there  are  days  when  death  is  my 
only  hope ;  but  also  I  have  other  instincts,  and  very  contrary 
ones  ;  sometimes  I  feel  myself  manacled  to  life  ;  the  thought 
of  grieving  him  I  love  takes  from  me  all  desire  to  be  com- 
forted, if  it  be  at  the  cost  of  his  peace  of  mind. 


1773]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  53 

In  short,  what  can  I  say  to  you  ?  The  excess  of  my  in- 
consistency bewilders  my  mind,  the  weight  of  life  is  crushing 
my  soul.  WTiat  must  I  do  ?  MTiat  will  become  of  me  ? 
Will  it  be  Charenton  or  the  grave  which  will  deliver  me 
from  myself  ?  I  make  you  a  victim  if  you  care  enough  for 
me  to  take  part  in  what  I  suffer,  and  I  regret  it ;  but  if  I 
have  caused  you  only  ennui,  I  shall  sink  with  confusion. 
Do  not  think  you  can  hide  this  from  me,  whatever  effort 
you  may  make  to  do  so ;  you  cannot  deceive  my  interest  — 
But  gratify  it  by  telling  me  how  you  are ;  have  you  had  as 
much  pleasure  as  you  hoped,  or  less  ?  Is  your  health  better 
than  during  the  last  days  you  were  here  ?  You  are  very 
modest,  you  never  told  me  how  you  were  celebrated  at 
Strasburg;  verses  were  made  in  your  honour;  they  were 
very  bad,  it  is  true,  but  the  intention  was  so  good  !  Do  not 
be  angry. 

Tell  me,  have  you  read  "  Le  Conn^table  "  on  your  journey 
[tragedy  in  rhyme  by  M.  de  Guibert] ,  not  while  posting,  but 
aloud  in  good  society  ?  Apropos  of  the  "  Connetable,"  if  you  had 
a  certain  sensibility,  if  you  were  like  Montaigne  and  regarded 
me  like  another  La  B^otie,  how  I  should  pity  you  for  deny- 
ing yourself  the  pleasure  of  giving  me  a  mark  of  confidence, 
esteem,  and  affection  !  I  do  not  boast  of  myself,  but  I  assure 
you  I  should  be  torn  by  remorse  if  I  had  treated  you  in  that 
way.  What  does  that  prove  ?  —  tell  me.  Adieu ;  I  know  all 
the  difference  in  our  affections  ;  teach  me  the  rcsemhlance ; 
that  game  [then  in  vogue]  will  never  have  been  played 
with  so  much  interest. 

Sunday,  June  20,  1773. 

Oh  !  mon  Dicu  !  are  you  dead,  or  have  you  already  forgot- 
ten how  keen  and  soiTowful  is  the  remembrance  of 
you  in  the  souls  you  have  left  ?  Not  a  word  from  you  since 
May  24th  !     It  is  very  difficult  not  to  believe  it  is  a  little 


54  LETTERS   OF  [1773 

your  fault.  If  that  is  so,  you  deserve  neither  the  regret  my 
heart  feels,  nor  the  reproaches  tliat  it  makes  you.  1  knew 
that  M.  d'Aguesseau  had  received  no  news  of  you.  I  in- 
terest myself  in  you  in  a  manner  so  true,  so  sincere,  that  I 
should  have  been  delighted  to  liave  heard  that  you  had 
given  him  the  preference  over  me.  He  deserves  it,  doubt- 
less in  all  respects  ;  but  it  is  not  justice  that  rules  feeling. 
Do  you  believe  that  if  that  virtue  governed  me  I  should  be 
uneasy  at  your  silence,  and  need  so  many  proofs  of  your 
friendship  ?  Alas,  no !  I  cannot  even  explain  to  myself 
why  I  am  su  concerned  about  you  at  this  moment,  for  I  heard 
yesterday  some  news  which  engulfs  my  soul  in  sorrow ;  I 
have  passed  the  night  in  tears ;  but  when  my  head  and  all 
my  faculties  were  exhausted,  when  I  gained  one  moment 
which  was  not  a  pain,  I  thought  of  you,  and  it  seemed  to  me 
that  had  you  been  here  I  should  have  written  you  what  I 
suffered  and  perhaps  you  would  have  come  to  me.  Tell  me 
if  I  deceive  myself.  When  my  soul  suffers  am  I  wrong  to 
seek  consolation  in  yours  ? 

In  the  midst  of  travel  and  many  interests  so  different 
from  those  that  touch  and  affect  the  heart,  can  you  still  hear 
a  language  which  is  foreign  to  most  men  carried  away  by 
dissipation  or  intoxicated  by  vanity  ?  Nor  is  that  language 
better  known  to  those  who,  like  you,  are  filled  with  the 
desire  for  knowledge  and  a  love  of  fame.  You  are  so  con- 
vinced that  sensibility  is  a  sign  of  mediocrity  that  I  faint 
with  fear  lest  your  soul  should  close  itself  wholly  to  this  emo- 
tion. It  is  fifteen  days  since  I  wrote  to  you,  and  I  believed 
yesterday  that  I  would  not  write  to  you  again  until  I  heard 
from  you.  Suffering  has  softened  my  soul  and  I  yield  to  it. 
At  five  o'clock  this  morning  I  took  two  grains  of  opium ;  I 
obtained  a  calmness  better  than  sleep ;  my  pain  is  less  rend- 
ing; I  feel  myself  crushed,  with  less  force  to  resist.     The 


1773]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  55 

violence  of  the  soul  is  moderated ;  I  can  speak  to  you,  I  can 
moan,  but  yesterday  I  had  no  power  of  expression.  I  could 
not  have  told  you  that  I  fear  for  the  life  of  him  I  love ;  I 
could  have  died  sooner  than  pronounce  those  words  that 
froze  my  heart. 

You  have  loved;  conceive,  therefore,  what  such  terrors 
are.  Until  Wednesday  next  I  am  left  in  an  uncertainty  that 
horrifies  me,  but  commands  me,  nevertheless,  to  live.  Yes, 
it  is  not  possible  to  die  so  long  as  we  are  loved  —  but  it 
is  dreadful  to  live.  Death  is  the  most  urgent  need  of  my 
soul,  yet  1  feel  myself  manacled  to  life.  Pity  me ;  forgive 
me  for  abusing  the  kindness  you  have  shown  me.  Is  it  in 
you  or  in  me  tliat  I  find  the  confidence  that  draws  me  on  ? 

They  say  that  you  cannot  have  found  the  King  of  Prussia 
in  Berlin.  Have  you  gone  to  Stettin  to  join  him  ?  he  was  to 
be  there  till  the  20th.  I  am  so  anxious ;  it  seems  to  me 
we  could  have  had  news  of  you  from  Berlin.  How  wrong 
of  you  if  you  have  shown  the  slightest  negligence.  You 
know  well  that  you  gave  me-  your  word  of  honour  that  some 
one  should  write  to  me  if  you  were  ill.  But  do  not  make 
use  of  that  pretext  which  may  content  ordinary  friendship 
which  does  not  tvish  to  be  made  uneasy  ;  that  would  be  detest- 
able ;  I  do  not  wish  to  be  spared ;  I  wish  to  suffer  through 
my  friends,  for  my  friends ;  and  I  treasure  a  thousand  times 
more  the  troubles  that  come  to  me  through  them  than 
all  the  happiness  on  earth  that  is  not  derived  from  them. 
Good-bye ;  the  opium  is  still  in  my  head ;  it  affects  my 
sight ;  perhaps  it  makes  me  more  stupid  than  usual  —  what 
matter  if  it  does  ?  it  is  not  my  mind,  only  my  sorrows  that 
interest  you. 

Monday  evening,  June  21,  1773. 

I  wrote  to  you  yesterday,  and  I  write  to  you  again  to- 
night.    If  I  waited  three  days,  that  is,  till  Wednesday,  per- 


56  LETTERS  OF  [1773 

haps  I  should  never  answer  your  letter  of  the  10th,  which 
M.  d'Aguesseau  brought  me  to-day.  In  the  first  place  (for 
there  may  still,  perhaps,  be  a  future  for  me),  I  must  ask  you 
to  address  your  letters  direct  to  me ;  to  send  them  through 
M.  d'Aguesseau  is  to  put  one  risk  the  more  against  me ;  he 
may  go  into  the  country,  or  travel,  etc. ;  in  short,  it  is  enough 
that  we  are  three  thousand  miles  apart ;  add  nothing  to  them. 
Oh !  I  shall  surely  seem  mad  to  you :  I  am  going  to  speak  to 
you  with  the  frankness,  the  self-abandonment  one  would 
have  if  death  were  certain  on  the  morrow;  listen  to  me, 
therefore,  with  the  indulgence  and  the  interest  that  we  have 
for  the  dying. 

Your  letter  has  done  me  good ;  I  expected  it  still,  but  I 
had  ceased  to  desire  it,  because  my  soul  could  no  longer 
have  an  emotion  that  resembled  pleasure.  Well,  —  shall  I 
say  it  ?  —  you  have  given  diversion  for  a  few  moments  to  the 
horror  which  absorbs  my  whole  existence.  Ah !  my  God ! 
I  fear  for  his  life ;  mine  is  fastened  to  his,  yet  I  have  need  to 
talk  with  you. 

Can  you  conceive  what  it  is  that  impels  me,  that  drags  me 
towards  you  ?  Nevertheless,  I  am  not  content  with  your 
friendship ;  I  find  a  coldness,  a  carelessness  in  not  telling  me 
why  you  did  not  write  to  me  from  Dresden  as  you  promised ; 
and  besides,  you  make  me  feel  in  too  marked  a  manner  that 
your  regret  at  not  finding  in  Berlin  what  you  hoped  for  has 
destroyed  the  pleasure  you  would  otherwise  have  felt  at  the 
expression  and  proof  of  my  friendship ;  and  then  too,  —  shall 
I  say  it  ?  —  I  am  wounded  that  you  have  not  thanked  me  for 
the  interest  that  I  take  in  you.  Do  you  think  it  any  answer 
to  this  that  I  am  very  unjust,  very  difficult  to  please  ?  No,  I 
am  nothing  of  all  that ;  I  am  very  true,  very  ill,  and  very 
unhappy  —  oh,  yes,  very  unhappy. 

If  I  did  not  tell  you  what  I  feel,  what  I  think,  I  could  not 


1773]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  57 

speak  to  you  at  all.  Do  you  believe  that  in  the  trouble  in 
which  I.  am  one  has  the  power  to  restrain  one's  self  ?  For 
example,  ought  I  to  be  touched  by  your  manner  of  saying  to 
me,  as  to  the  chief  interest  of  my  life,  "  Answer  me  on  all 
this  what  you  can,  and  what  you  like  "  ?  Oh  !  yes,  what  I 
like !  you  leave  me  great  liberty,  but  you  see  how  I  employ 
it,  —  not  in  criticising  you,  only  in  proving  to  you  what 
you  know  even  better  than  I :  that  we  have  the  tone  and 
expression  of  what  we  feel,  and  if  I  am  not  satisfied,  it  is 
not  your  fault —  I  know  that  well. 

But  I  claim  nothing,  unless  it  be  that  species  of  consola- 
tion which  we  so  seldom  allow  ourselves :  that  of  speaking 
out  our  whole  thought.  People  are  always  restrained  by  a 
fear  of  the  morrow ;  I  feel  myself  as  free  as  though  there 
were  no  morrow  for  me ;  and  if,  by  chance,  I  should  live  on, 
I  foresee  that  I  could  forgive  myself  for  having  told  you  the 
truth  at  the  risk  of  displeasing  you.  Is  it  not  true  that  our 
friendship  must  be  great,  strong,  and  complete,  our  intimacy 
tender,  solid,  close,  or  else,  nothing  at  all  ?  Therefore,  I  can 
never  repent  having  shown  you  the  depths  of  my  soul.  If 
that  is  not  what  you  want,  if  there  be  any  contempt  for  it, 
well !  let  us  be  sincere  ;  let  us  not  be  shamed  or  embarrassed ; 
let  us  return  whence  we  started,  and  believe  that  we  have 
dreamed.  We  can  add  this  clause  to  the  chapter  of  experi- 
ence, and  behave  in  future  like  those  well-bred  persons  who 
know  it  is  not  polite  to  tell  their  dreams.  We  will  keep 
silence  about  them ;  silence  is  pleasant  when  it  comforts 
self-love ! 

You  will  not  tell  me  what  rank  you  give  me ;  are  you 
restrained  by  a  fear  of  gi^dng  me  too  much  or  too  little  ?  that 
may  be  just,  but  it  is  not  noble.  Youth  is  so  magnificent,  it 
loves  to  give  lavishly ;  yet  here  you  are  as  miserly  as  if  you 
were  old  or  rich.     You  ask  the  impossible ;  you  want  me  to 


58  LETTERS   OF  [1773 

pity  you  liecause  you  do  your  own  will ;  1  am  to  combat  you 
to  restore  your  native  spirit.  Eh  !  mon  Dieu  !  a  little  while 
and  I  will  answer  for  it  that  your  nature  will  govern  you 
despotically ;  the  habit  of  conquermg  will  strengthen  it,  and 
there  is  little  need  of  that !  You  have  said  to  yourself  (I 
have  long  been  sure  of  this)  that  it  mattered  nothing 
whether  you  were  happy  so  long  as  you  were  great.  Let 
things  happen ;  I  will  answer  for  it  that  you  will  be  consist- 
ent; there  is  notliing  vague  or  wavering  about  you  except 
your  feelings;  your  thoughts,  your  projects  are  fixed  in  an 
absolute  manner.  I  am  much  deceived  if  you  were  not  born 
to  make  the  happiness  of  a  vain  soul  and  the  despair  of  a 
feeling  one.  Own  to  me  that  what  1  am  now  saying  does 
not  displease  you ;  you  will  forgive  me  for  loving  you  less 
when  I  prove  to  you  that  others  will  admire  you  more. 

You  ask  me  a  singular  question,  truly.  You  say,  "  Are 
there  better  reasons  than  myself  for  his  absence  ? "  Yes, 
there  are  better,  —  one  indeed  that  is  absolute ;  one  that  if 
he  succeeds  in  subduing  it,  the  sacrifice  of  my  whole  life 
cannot  repay  the  debt.  All  the  circumstances,  all  events, 
all  moral  and  physical  reasons  are  against  him ;  but  he  is  so 
ardent  for  me  that  he  will  not  permit  me  to  have  a  doubt  of 
his  return.  Nevertheless,  I  shudder  at  what  I  may  hear  on 
Wednesday  :  he  spits  blood ;  he  has  been  bled  twice ;  at  the 
moment  when  the  courier  left  him  he  was  better ;  but  the 
hemorrhage  may  return ;  and  how  can  I  be  calm  with  that 
thought  before  me  ?  He  himself  fears  the  result ;  though 
he  tries  to  reassure  me,  I  detect  his  fear.  Tell  me  if  you 
know  of  whom  I  speak ;  and  further,  did  you  know  it  when 
I  wrote  to  ask  you  for  "  Le  Coundtable  "  I  Is  it  delicacy  or 
caution  which  makes  you  seem  to  ignore  a  name  I  have  not 
mentioned  to  you  ? 

But  I  am  not  speaking  to  you  of  your  journey.    If  I  could 


1773]  MLLE.  DE   LESPINASSE.  59 

believe  that  I  shall  live  and  that  you  will  not  go  to  Eussia, 
I  should  eagerly  desire  that  you  might  be  detained  in  Berlin. 
But  as  I  think  that  you  always  feel  the  need  of  doing  diffi- 
cult things,  I  would  like,  now  that  you  are  once  started,  that 
you  should  make  the  tour  of  the  world,  —  in  order  that  it 
might  once  be  done ;  and  then,  could  there  be  repose  in  the 
future  ?  Hardly  would  you  return  before  you  would  start 
for  Montauban  [where  his  father  lived]  ;  and  after  that,  other 
projects ;  for  you  cannot  endure  rest  unless  it  be  to  make 
plans  for  travelling  a  thousand  leagues.  Yes,  on  my  honour, 
I  think  it  was  a  great  misfortime  for  me  the  day  that  I  spent 
one  year  ago  at  Moulin-Joli.^  I  was  far  indeed  from  needing 
to  form  a  new  attachment ;  my  life  and  my  soul  were  so 
filled  that  I  was  very  far  from  desiring  a  new  interest ;  and 
you,  you  had  no  need  of  this  additional  proof  of  what  you 
can  inspire  in  an  honoural)le  and  sensitive  person.  Oh !  it 
is  pitiful !  Are  we  free  agents  ?  Can  what  is  be  otherwise  ? 
Were  you  not  free  to  tell  me  that  you  would  write  to  me 
often  ?  As  for  me,  I  am  not  free  to  cease  to  desire  it  eagerly. 
Having  thus  scolded  you,  I  must  add  that  you  were  very 
kind  to  write  to  me  on  your  arrival;  I  deserved  it,  —  yes, 
indeed  I  did. 

Thursday,  June  24,  1773. 
Three  times  in  one  week !  It  is  too  much,  much  too 
much,  is  it  not  ?  But  it  is  because  I  care  for  you  enough  to 
believe  that  I  have  made  you  uneasy.  You  must  be  feeling 
some  impatience  to  know  if  I  am  still  living.  Well,  yes ! 
I  am  condemned  to  live ;  I  am  no  longer  at  liberty  to  die ; 
I  should  do  harm  to  one  who  desires  to  live  for  me.  I  have 
news  of  him  to  the  10th ;   it  does  not  altogether  reassure 

1  The  house  of  the  painter  and  litte'rateur,  Watelet,  on  the  banks  of 
the  Seine,  where  she  met  M.  de  Guibert  for  the  first  time.  The  gardens 
of  this  place  were  famous  as  among  the  first  to  be  laid  out  in  the  English 
style.  —  Fr.  Ed. 


60  LETTERS  OF  [1773 

me,  but  I  hope  that  his  hemorrhage  may  not  have  fatal 
results ;  I  even  hope  it  may  hasten  his  return ;  but  this  hot 
vi^eather  is  a  mortal  injury  to  him,  and  I  must  wait. 

Ah !  mon  Dieu  !  always  to  see  pleasure  deferred,  disap- 
pearing !  always  to  be  engulfed,  overwhelmed  by  sorrow ! 
If  you  knew  what  need  I  have  of  repose  !  for  one  year  I 
have  been  upon  the  rack.  You  alone,  perhaps,  have  had  the 
power  to  suspend  my  sorrow  for  a  few  instants;  and  that 
blessing  of  a  moment  has  bound  me  to  you  forever. 

But  tell  me,  —  my  last  letter,  did  it  displease  you  ?  Do  I 
not  stand  ill  with  you  ?  I  should  be  grieved  were  it  so ; 
but  I  am  not  like  Mme.  du  Ohatelet ;  I  know  no  repentance. 
Answer  me  with  the  same  frankness  that  I  employ  to  you ; 
esteem  me  enough  not  to  tell  jue  half  the  truth ;  tell  me  all 
the  evil  you  think  of  me ;  and  it  is  not,  as  M.  de  la  Eoche- 
foucauld  says,  for  the  pleasure  of  hearing  myself  spoken  of 
that  I  ask  you  to  tell  me  this ;  it  is  to  judge  if  you  are  my 
friend,  if  — in  a  word  —  you  can  he  my  friend.  I  attach  enough 
value  to  our  intercourse  to  wish  urgently  to  know  what  there 
may  have  been  of  sudden  surprise,  or  mistake,  in  that  which 
drew  us  to  each  other.  It  is  said  that  nothing  is  stronger  or 
better  founded  than  the  sentiments  for  which  -we  can  give 
no  reason.  If  that  is  true,  I  ought  to  rely  upon  your  friend- 
ship ;  but  you  will  not  have  it  so ;  why  is  that  ?  Shall  I 
not  be  satisfied  with  it  ?  Do  you  not  know  that  the  natural 
impulse  after  we  have  acquired  a  new  possession  is  to 
examine  it,  to  observe  it  on  all  sides ;  this  occupation  is 
perhaps  the  highest  joy  that  possession  gives  ;  but  you,  you 
do  not  know  all  the  details  and  all  the  pleasures  of  sensi- 
bility. Whatever  is  elevated,  whatever  is  noble,  whatever  is 
grand,  that  is  your  sphere.  The  heroes  of  Corneille  fix  your 
attention  ;  scarcely  do  you  cast  your  eyes  on  the  little  swains 
of  Gessner.    You  love  to  admire,  and  I,  I  have  but  one  need, 


1773]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  61 

oue  will,  —  to  love.  What  does  it  matter  ?  "We  may  not 
have  the  same  language,  but  there  is  a  sort  of  instinct  that 
supplies  all ;  nothing,  however,  can  fill  the  chasm  of  a  thou- 
sand leagues  of  distance ! 

I  was  so  troubled  the  last  time  I  wrote  that  I  did  not  tell 
you  Diderot  was  in  Holland;  he  likes  it  so  well,  he  has 
already  so  many  friends  whom  he  never  saw  before,  that  it 
is  quite  possible  that  he  may  not  return  to  Paris,  and  even 
forget  that  he  was  on  his  way  to  Russia.  He  is  an  extraor- 
dinary man,  not  in  his  place  in  society :  he  ought  to  be  the 
leader  of  a  sect,  a  Greek  philosopher,  teaching,  instructing 
youth.  He  pleases  me  very  much,  but  nothing  about  him 
reaches  my  soul ;  his  sensibilities  are  only  skin-deep ;  he 
never  goes  farther  than  emotion.  I  like  nothing  that  is  half 
and  half,  nothing  that  is  undecided  and  not  thorough.  I 
cannot  understand  the  ways  of  people  in  society ;  they 
amuse  themselves  and  yawn,  they  have  friends  and  they 
love  no  one.  All  that  seems  to  me  deplorable.  Yes,  I 
prefer  the  torture  that  consumes  my  life  to  the  pleasure  that 
numbs  theirs;  with  that  fashion  of  being  we  may  not  be 
lovable,  but  we  love,  and  that  is  a  thousand  times  better  than 
pleasing. 

How  I  should  like  to  know  if  you  are  going  to  Eussia.  I 
hope  not,  because,  as  you  say,  I  desire  it.  Letters  seem  to 
me  to  come  more  slowly  from  Russia  than  from  any  other 
part  of  the  world.  I  have  re-read,  twice,  thrice,  your  letter ; 
first  because  it  was  difficult  to  read,  next,  because  I  was  diffi- 
cult to  please.  Ah  !  if  you  knew  what  faults  of  omission  I 
found  in  it !     But  why  should  you  not  make  them  ? 

M.  d'Alembert  is  awaiting  a  letter  from  you  with  great 
impatience.  M.  de  Crillon  forestalled  you.  Your  friend,  M. 
dAguesseau  seemed  to  me,  at  least  on  the  day  he  brought  me 
your  letter,  very  extraordinary  ;  he  had  the  air  of  a  person  in 


62  LICT'J'KRS  OF  [1773 

trouble ;  his  movements  had  something  convulsive  about  them. 
He  said  he  was  ill,  and  I  believe  it ;  he  has  a  project  of  going 
to  Spa.  I  do  not  know  if  he  will,  but  1  am  glad  he  will  not 
be  with  ycm.  Adieu  ;  1  have  overwiielined  ytju  with  (|ues- 
tions  to  which  you  do  not  iei)ly.  I  do  not  ask  if  y(ju  would 
like  me  to  send  you  the  news,  because  it  would  be  out  of  my 
power  to  put  my  mind  to  such  things;  but  I  know  some- 
tliing  that  the  public  does  not  yet  know,  namely :  that 
M.  d'Aranda  is  appointed  ambassador  from  Spain  in  place  (jf 
M.  de  Fuentfes  [father  of  the  Marquis  de  Mora]  and  that  the 
latter  is  given  the  first  place  at  his  Court.  All  this  is  of  no 
interest  to  you,  and  it  may  astonish  you  that  it  is  of  great 
interest  to  me.  Must  1  not  be  foolish  to  interest  myself  in 
things  that  happen  in  ]\Iadrid  ?  Adieu  again.  My  style  of 
folly  is  e(|ual  to  your  piety.  Send  me  news  of  yourself  often 
and  at  length  ;  share,  if  you  can,  the  pleasure  that  it  will  give 
me.  How  many  letters  do  you  receive  that  you  are  more 
eager  to  open  than  mine  ?  —  three  ?  ten  ? 

Thursday,  July  1,  1773. 
Oh  !  if  you  knew  how  unjust  I  am !  how  I  have  accused 
you !  how  I  have  told  myself  that  I  ought  -to  expect  and 
desire  nothing  of  your  friendship  !  And  the  cause  of  it  all 
was  merely  that  I  received  no  letters  from  you.  Tell  me  why 
we  expect,  why  we  exact  so  much  from  one  on  whom  we  do 
not  rely.  Ah !  truly,  I  believe  you  will  forgive  my  incon- 
sistencies ;  but  I,  I  must  not  be  so  indulgent ;  they  hurt  me 
more  than  they  do  you.  I  no  longer  know  what  I  owe  to 
you ;  I  no  longer  know  what  I  give  you ;  I  only  know  that 
your  absence  is  heavy  upon  me ;  yet  I  cannot  assure  myself 
that  your  presence  would  do  me  good.  Ah  !  mon  Dieu  !  what 
a  horrible  situation  is  that  in  which  pleasure,  consolation, 
friendship,  all,  in  short,  becomes  poison  !     \Miat  must  I  do  ? 


i::3]  MLLE.  DE   LESPINASSE.  63 

tell  me ;  how  recover  calmness  ?  I  know  not  where  to  look 
for  strength  to  resist  impressions  so  deep  and  so  diverse. 
Oh !  how  many  times  we  die  before  death  !  All  things  dis- 
tress and  injure  me  ;  yet  the  liberty  to  deliver  myself  from 
the  bm'den  that  is  crushing  me  is  taken  from  me.  Laden 
with  sorrow,  there  is  one  who  wishes  me  to  live ;  I  am  torn 
both  ways  —  by  despair,  and  by  the  pity  that  another  makes 
me  feel. 

Ah  !  my  God  !  can  it  be  that  to  love,  to  be  loved,  is  not  a 
good  ?  I  suffer  every  pain,  and,  more  than  that,  I  trouble  the 
repose,  I  make  the  unhappiiiess,  of  the  one  I  love.  My  soul 
is  exliausted  by  sorrow ;  my  bodily  frame  is  destroyed,  and 
yet  I  live,  and  I  must  live.  AVHiy  do  you  require  it  ?  what 
niatt€rs  my  life  to  you  ?  of  what  value  do  you  reckon  it  ? 
what  am  I  to  you  ?  Your  soul  is  so  busy,  your  life  so  full 
and  so  active,  how  can  you  find  time  to  pity  my  woes  ?  and 
have  you  indeed  enough  feeling  to  respond  to  my  friendship  ? 
All  !  you  are  very  amiable ;  you  have  the  tone  of  interest,  but 
it  seems  to  me  it  is  not  I  who  inspire  it.  My  letters  are  neces- 
sary to  you ;  perhaps  that  is  true  —  yes,  as  you  say  so  ;  but 
why  be  so  long  iu  writing  to  me  ?  and  why  not  send  yom^ 
letters  direct  ?     Strasburg  delays  them  for  two  or  three  days. 

I  am  enchanted  (and  it  was  thus  I  intended  to  begin  my 
letter)  that  you  have  been  satisfied  with  the  King  of  Prussia. 
AMiat  you  tell  me  of  that  magic  vapour  that  surrounds  him 
is  so  charming,  so  noble,  so  just,  that  I  cannot  be  silent  about 
it ;  I  have  read  it  to  all  those  who  deserved  to  hear  it.  Mme. 
Geoffrin  asked  me  to  give  her  a  copy.  I  have  sent  it  far  and 
near,  and  it  will  be  felt.  So  you  are  not  going  to  Russia  ?  I 
am  glad.  Let  me  tell  you  again  how  charming  I  find  your 
friendship ;  you  answer  me,  you  converse,  you  are  still  beside 
me  though  a  thousand  leagues  distant.  But  how  comes  it 
that  that  woman  does  not  love  you  to  madness,  as  you  wish 


64  LETTERS  OF  [1773 

to  be  loved,  as  you  deserve  to  be  ?  haw  else  can  she  employ 
her  soul  and  her  life  ?  Ah  !  she  has  neither  taste  nor  sensi- 
bility ;  of  that  I  am  sure.  She  ought  to  love  you,  if  only 
from  vanity  —  but  why  do  I  meddle  in  all  this  ?  You  are 
satisfied,  or  if  you  are  not,  you  love  the  ill  she  does  you ;  why, 
therefore,  should  I  pity  you  ?  But  that  other  unhappy  person  ! 
it  is  she  who  interests  me ;  have  you  written  to  her  ?  is  her 
pain  as  deep  as  ever  ?  I  must  tell  you  that  the  other  day  at 
Mme.  de  Boufflers  much  was  said  of  you  and  "  Le  Connd table," 
and  the  yoimg  Comtesse  de  Boufflers  told  me  that  she  believed 
you  were  very  much  in  love,  and  this  belief  had  made  her 
watch  Mme.  de  .  .  .  with  great  attention.  A  man  present 
assured  us  that  you  no  longer  loved  her;  j'ou  had  done  so, 
but  the  feeling  had  worn  out,  and  he  thought  you  would 
never  be  long  happy  or  unhappy  for  the  same  woman ;  he 
said  the  activity  of  your  soul  did  not  allow  it  to  fix  itself 
long  on  one  object ;  and  from  that  arose  a  witty  discussion 
on  matters  of  feeling  and  passion.  The  Comtesse  de  Boufflers 
finally  said  that  she  did  not  know  who  it  was  with  whom 
you  were  in  love,  but  it  certainly  was  no  longer  Mme.  de  .  .  . 
and  she  judged,  by  the  notes  she  had  received  from  you  at 
the  time  of  your  departure,  that  you  were  strongly  attached 
to  some  one  and  that  your  absence  from  her  rent  your  soul ; 
but  then  came  the  natural  reflection :  "  Why  does  he  go  to 
Russia  ? "  Perhaps  to  cure  himself,  perhaps  to  stifle  the 
feelings  of  the  woman  he  loves.  At  last,  after  many  conjec- 
tures of  no  interest,  I  was  asked  if  I  liked  you,  if  I  knew  you 
well,  for  until  then  I  had  not  said  a  word  :  "  Yes,  I  like  him 
much  ;  after  knowing  him  a  little  there  is  only  one  way  of 
liking  him."  "  Well,  then,  you  know  his  intimacies ;  who  is 
the  object  of  his  passion  ? "  "  No,  truly,  I  know  nothing ; 
except  that  he  is  now  in  Berlin  and  is  well ;  that  the  King  of 
Prussia  has  received  him  admirably  and  is  to  show  him  his 


1773]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  65 

troops ;  after  that,  he  goes  to  Silesia  ;  that  is  all  I  know,  and 
all  that  interests  me."  After  this  we  talked  of  the  Opera,  of 
Madame  la  Dauphine  and  of  a  thousand  "  interesting  "  things. 
I  tell  you  all  this  to  show  you  that  I  do  not  like  society  to 
gossip  about  your  affections,  your  dislikes,  your  inconstancies. 
I  like  to  hear  only  of  your  merit,  your  virtue,  your  talents ; 
am  I  wrong  ? 

I  have  written  three  times  to  Berlin  since  the  6th  of  June. 
No  doubt  they  will  forward  your  letters;  I  remember 
the  desire  you  will  have  to  receive  certain  letters,  "  the  de- 
privation of  which  turned  your  head."  For  pity's  sake  do 
not  treat  me  so  well ;  do  not  write  to  me  first,  because  then 
(without  being  aware  of  it)  you  will  write  to  me  merely  for 
the  sake  of  saying  )0u  have  written.  Do  not  come  to  me 
until  you  have  nothing  more  to  say  to  lier ;  that  is  in  the 
order  of  things ;  friendship  comes  after,  sometimes  at  a  great 
distance,  sometimes  very  near  —  too  near  perhaps  —  the  un- 
happy love  !  We  love  so  much  that  which  comforts  us !  it  is 
so  sweet  to  love  that  which  gives  us  pleasure.  I  do  not  know 
why  it  is,  but  something  warns  me  that  I  shall  say  of  your 
fiiendship  what  Comte  d'Argenson  said  on  seeing,  for  the 
first  time,  his  pretty  niece.  Mile,  de  Berville.  "Ah!"  he 
cried,  "  she  is  very  pretty !  let  us  hope  she  will  give  us 
many  griefs." 

What  do  you  think  of  that  ?  But  you  are  so  strong,  so 
moderate,  and  above  all  so  occupied,  that  you  are  equally 
sheltered  from  great  sorrows  and  little  giiefs.  That  is  how 
minds  should  be,  how  talents  should  be ;  it  is  that  which 
renders  human  beings  superior  to  events.  And  when,  with 
that,  a  man  is  as  honourable  and,  above  all,  as  feeling  as  you 
are,  he  is  no  doubt  painfully  affected,  —  enough  so  to  satisfy 
ordinary  friendship ;  but  he  is  soon  diverted  from  the  emo- 
tions  of   his   soul  when   his   head   is   eagerly  and   deeply 


66  LETTERS   OF  [1773 

occupied.  I  predict  this  of  you,  and  I  am  glad  of  it : 
you  will  never  experience  those  sorrows  which  convulse 
the  soul;  you  are  young  enough  to  still  receive  a  few 
slight  shocks,  but,  I  answer  for  it;  you  will  soon  recover 
ywur  balance ;  ah,  yes !  I  answer  for  it,  and  you  will  make 
a  great  career  and  have  a  great  celebrity  —  I  shall  horrify 
you,  I  shall  show  you  a  very  paltry  and  common  soul,  but  I 
cannot  bear  that  idea.  Every  time  that  I  think  of  you  in  the 
future  I  have  an  icy  feeling  ;  it  is  not  because  what  is  great 
attracts  admiration  and  crushes  me,  but  because  that  which 
is  great  so  rarely  deserves  to  be  loved. 

Admit  that  I  am  almost  as  silly  as  I  am  wild  ;  I  am  much 
worse  than  either.  I  have  that  particular  style  which  Vol- 
taire (I  venture  to  name  him)  sajs  is  the  only  bad  style ; 
I  fathom  you  so  well  that  I  know  I  need  not  tell  you  it 
is  the  xDearying  style.  The  difference  in  our  affections  is 
this :  you  are  at  the  other  end  of  the  world,  you  are 
calm  enough  to  enjoy  everything ;  while  I  am  in  Paris, 
I  suffer,  and  I  enjoy  nothing ;  "  that  is  all,"  as  Marivaux 
says. 

I  have  received  many  details  regarding  liim.  I  see  there 
is  nothing  now  to  fear  from  this  last  hemorrhage  ;  but  ask 
yourself  if  it  is  possible  to  have  a  moment's  peace  while 
trembling  for  the  life  of  one  to  whom  one  would  sacrifice  one's 
own  life  at  every  instant.  Ah  !  if  you  did  but  know  how  lov- 
able he  is,  how  worthy  of  being  loved !  His  soul  is  gentle, 
tender,  strong ;  I  am  certain  he  is  the  man  in  all  the  world 
who  would  please  and  suit  you  most.  .  .  . 

It  is  you  who  give  me  faults ;  you  have  that  exclusive 
privilege.  I  am  with  all  my  other  fi-iends  the  best  and 
easiest  of  beings ;  they  always  favour  me,  they  forestall 
me  in  every  way ;  I  spend  my  life  in  tlianking  them  and 
praising  tliem,  and   I   c<in) plain  of  you — but   only  to  you. 


1773]  MLLE.    DE   LESPINASSE.  67 

I  criticise  you,  I  disapprove  of  you ;  wliy  that  difference  ? 
Can  you  believe  that  it  is  only  one  year  since  we  first  knew 
each  other  ?     It  seems  to  me  impossible, 

Wednesday  evening,  July  14,  1778. 

Ah !  how  amiable  you  can  be,  and  how  you  surprise  me  by 
returning  to  me,  being  so  occupied,  so  dissipated  as  you  are ! 
How  is  it  that  you  even  think  of  one  who  can  have  no  other 
merit  in  your  eyes  than  that  of  seeming  capable  of  loving  and 
suffering  ?  Of  what  use  to  you  are  those  sad  faculties  ?  You 
have  no  need  of  being  loved,  and  you  would  be  sorry  to  make 
me  suffer  ;  what  value  can  j^ou  place  upon  an  intimac}'  where 
all  the  advantage  is  on  my  side  only  ? 

You  ask  me  questions  which  I  am  not  in  a  state  to  answer. 
Alas  !  one  must  needs  be  calm  to  answer  the  questions  of  in- 
difference. Sorrow,  the  duration  of  suffering,  have  given  me 
a  species  of  stupidity  which  deprives  me  of  the  power  of 
thinking ;  all  the  reason  left  to  me  is  enough  (and  no  more) 
t(j  judge  myself,  to  condemn  my  emotions,  and  be  sorry  for 
all  my  feelings.  My  soul  has  continual  fever  with  par- 
oxysms which  lead  me  often  to  delirium.  Oh!  if  it  were 
true  that  excess  of  ill  gives  birth  to  good,  I  might  hope 
for  some  relief.  No,  I  can  no  longer  bear  the  diverse 
agitations  that  rend  my  heart,  but  I  reproach  myself  for 
the  weakness  that  drags  me  into  showing  you  what  I 
suffer.  It  seems  to  me  that  I  cannot  excite  your  interest; 
I  have  no  claim  on  your  sensibilities ;  and  if  I  had,  it  is 
not  with  my  sorrows  that  I  ought  to  nourish  them.  No, 
you  owe  me  nothing,  and  I  will  prove  it  to  you :  I  detest, 
I  abhor,  the  fatality  which  forced  me  to  write  to  you 
that  first  note;  yet  at  this  very  moment,  perhaps,  it  is 
dragging  me  onward  with  the  same  power.  I  did  not  wish 
to  speak  to  you  of  myself;  I  meant  simply  to  thank   you 


68  LETTERS   OF  [1773 

for  wi'iting   to  me   before  you  reached   Vienna.     I    meant 
to  answer  you,  not  speak  to  you  from  myself. 

Of  your  praises  I  accept  none,  and  I  shall  amaze  you ;  the 
reason  is  that  they  do  not  praise  me.  What  matters  it  to 
me  that  you  judge  I  am  not  silly  ?  It  is  strange,  but  never- 
theless true,  that  you  are  the  man  in  the  world  whom  I  least 
care  to  please.  Explain  to  me  that  singularity ;  explain  to 
me  why  I  judge  you  with  intolerable  severity;  why  I  find 
myself  continually  unjust  to  you ;  why,  not  believing  in 
your  friendship,  I  cavil  at  all  its  expressions ;  why,  in  short, 
having  reason  to  praise  you,  I  am  so  tempted  to  find  fault  ? 
My  reason  tells  me  I  ought  to  ask  your  pardon  because  my 
thoughts  insult  you  constantly,  and  my  soul  revolts  at  the 
mere  feeling  that  you  may  be  showing  mercy  to  me.  No, 
no !  I  do  not  want  it ;  judge  me  severely  ;  see  my  injustice, 
my  inconsistency,  and  let  yourself  follow  the  impulse  that 
such  a  sight  must  inspire  in  you.  Ah  !  as  I  have  already 
told  you,  we  cannot  make  of  all  this  the  friendship  of  Mon- 
taigne and  La  B^otie.  They  were  calm ;  they  simply  gave 
themselves  up  to  the  sweet  and  mutual  impressions  they 
received  ;  but  we  —  we  are  ill,  yet  with  this  difference,  that 
you  are  a  sick  man  full  of  strength  and  reason,  who  will  act 
in  a  manner  to  soon  enjoy  the  best  of  health ;  while  I  —  I 
am  attacked  by  a  fell  disease  in  which  all  the  reliefs  that  I 
have  sought  have  turned  to  poison,  and  have  served  only  to 
render  my  sufferings  more  acute.  These  are  strange  indeed ; 
they  deprave  my  reason,  they  lead  astray  my  judgment,  for 
I  do  not  desire  to  be  cured ;  I  am  conscious  only  of  the  want 
to  die.  Ah !  my  God !  how  sorry  I  should  be  to  travel,  to 
devour  a  hundred  volumes  in  two  months  of  time!  how 
"grieved  I  should  be  to  be  worth  as  much  as  you,  to  be  des- 
tined to  such  success,  such  glory !  If  you  only  knew  how 
small  my  soul  is  !  it  sees  but  one  thing  only  in  all  the  world 


1773]  MLLE.    DE   LESPINASSE.  69 

that  is  worthy  to  occupy  it.  Caesar,  Voltaire,  the  King  of 
Prussia  seem  to  it  sometimes  worthy  of  admiration,  but 
never  of  envj.  I  should  horrify  you  too  much  if  I  told  you 
the  fate  I  should  prefer  to  all  else  that  breathes ;  yes,  I  am 
like  Felix  —  in  Polyeucte  :  — 

"  I  enter  upon  feelings  tbat  are  not  believable, 
Some  I  have  are  violent,  others  are  pitiable; 
I  have  even  some  —  " 

But  you  cannot  understand  that  language ;  I  should  make 
you  blush  for  having  thought  that  my  soul  had  relations  with 
yours.  You  do  me  too  much  honour  in  raising  me  to  your 
level ;  but  avoid  ever  putting  me  beside  the  women  you  most 
esteem ;  you  would  annoy  them,  and  do  me  harm.  You  do 
not  know  all  my  value ;  reflect  that  I  can  suffer  and  die,  and 
then  ask  yourself  if  I  resemble  those  women  who  please  and 
amuse  themselves.  Alas !  the  one  is  as  repugnant  to  me  as 
the  other  is  impossible.  I  dislike  whatever  comes  to  distract 
and  turn  me  from  my  one  thought ;  there  are  objects  that 
nothing  can  make  me  lose  from  sight.  What  I  hear  called 
dissipation,  pleasure,  only  stupefies  and  wearies  me ;  and  if 
any  one  had  the  power  to  part  me  a  moment  from  my  sorrows, 
I  believe  that,  far  from  feeling  gi-ateful,  1  shoidd  hate  him. 
What  think  you  of  that  ?  you  who  talk  to  me  of  my  "  happi- 
ness," and  who  lead  me  to  hope  that,  if  it  depends  on  your 
friendship,  you  will  give  it  to  me.  No,  monsieur,  your  friend- 
ship will  not  give  me  happiness,  for  that  is  impossible  ;  it  will 
console  me,  it  may,  perhaps,  make  me  suffer,  and  I  do  not 
know  whether  I  shall  hereafter  felicitate  or  pity  myself  most 
for  what  I  owe  to  you. 

Why  do  you  take  the  tone  of  justifying  yourself  for  hav- 
ing read  aloud  the  "  Conn^table "  ?  It  would  have  been 
disobliging  to  refuse  a  pleasure  you  could  give  and  receive. 
The  King  of  Prussia  wrote  a  charming  letter  to  M.  d'Alem- 


70  LETTERS  OF  [1773 

bei't,  full  of  your  praises,  and  he  counted  on  hearing  }-ou  read 
the ."  Conn^table."  I  am  certain  he  will  be  delighted  with 
it ;  its  tragedy  is  on  the  tone  of  his  own  soul  in  many  ways. 
Adieu ;  give  me  frequent  news  of  you,  and  form  no  plan  of 
writuig  me  four  lines.  Keep  that  intention  for  your  acquaint- 
ance ;  some  friends,  even,  may  be  content  with  it,  but  I  am 
hard  to  satisfy.     Tell  me  if  you  have  received  my  letters. 

Paris,  July  25,  1773. 

No,  no !  do  not  deceive  yourself ;  the  greatest  distances 
are  not  those  that  Nature  marks  with  milestones  ;  the  Indies 
are  not  so  far  from  Paris  as  the  date  of  June  27  is  far  from 
that  of  July  15 ;  there  is  verital)le  remoteness,  horrible  sepa- 
ration, forgetfulness  of  the  soul !  it  resembles  deatli,  but  is 
worse,  because  it  is  felt  so  long.  But  do  not  think  I  reproach 
you  —  ah !  vion  Dieu  !  I  have  not  the  right ;  you  owe  me 
nothing,  and  I  ought  to  return  you  thanks  for  any  mark  of 
your  remembrance. 

I  knew  from  Baron  de  Kock  that  the  camp  manoeuvres 
would  not  take  place.  It  is  thought  here  that  the  Emperor 
and  the  King  of  Prussia  have  given  themselves  a  rendezvous 
in  some  town  of  their  new  possessions ;  but  you  have  filled 
your  time  in  a  useful  manner,  so  that  you  will  regret  the 
camps  but  little.  What !  smcerely,  do  you  really  wish  me 
to  reduce  you  to  my  dimensions  ?  Is  it  because  you  find  it 
easier  to  bend  yourself  than  to  raise  me  ?  but  from  whatever 
level  I  look  at  you,  you  retain  your  own  height,  which  is  sucli 
that  few  men  reach  it.  Permit  me  not  to  regard  as  a  result 
of  confidence  and  friendship  what  you  tell  me  of  your  char- 
acter. Alas  ! .  do  you  know  what  you  reveal  to  me  by  disclos- 
ing the  inconsistencies  which  agitate  you  ?  It  is  that  I  am 
stujnd,  that  I  see  nothing,  observe  nothing ;  for,  if  you  are 
neither  false  nor  dissimulating,  I  ought  to  have  discovered 


1773]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  71 

what  you  think  you  now  disclose  to  me  of  your  own  accord. 
Do  you  wish  me  to  tell  you  something  of  profound  wisdom  ? 
It  is  that  neither  you  nor  I  know  you  perfectly  :  you,  because 
you  are  too  near,  and  because  you  observe  yourself  too  much  ; 
and  I,  because  I  have  always  regarded  you  with  fear  and 
embarrassment.  Oh !  if  ever  I  see  you  again,  I  will  look 
better  into  you ;  it  seems  to  me  that  my  sight  is  growing 
keener. 

"VMiat  you  say  about  the  cause  of  your  continental  journeys 
is  charming,  full  of  wit  and  grace,  and  that  is  surely  enough 
to  make  us  do  without  trutli.  "  I  fill  my  youth  in  order  that 
my  old  age  may  not  blame  me  for  neglecting  to  employ  it." 
You  see  you  are  like  the  miser,  who,  while  his  children  are 
dying  of  hunger,  justifies  his  cruelty  in  his  own  eyes  by  say- 
ing that  he  amasses  wealth  that  they  may  enjoy  it  after  him. 
Let  us  be  more  candid ;  let  us  not  seek  a  pretext  to  justify 
our  tastes  and  our  passions :  you  go  to  the  ends  of  the  eartli 
because  yoin-  soul  is  more  eager  than  tender.  Well,  what 
harm  in  that  ?  You  are  young,  you  have  known  love,  you 
liave  suffered,  and  you  conclude  from  that  that  you  have  sen- 
sibility :  it  is  not  so.  You  are  ardent,  you  can  be  impassioned, 
you  are  capable  of  all  that  is  strong,  of  all  that  is  grand,  but 
you  will  never  do  any  but  things  of  movement ;  that  is  to  say, 
actions,  detached  deeds ;  and  such  is  not  the  way  of  sensibil- 
ity and  tenderness.  They  attach,  they  bind,  they  fill  the 
whole  life;  they  leave  no  place  for  aught  but  sweet  and 
peaceful  virtues ;  they  evade  distraction ;  all  that  separates 
and  removes  them  from  then  object  seems  to  them  misfor- 
tune or  tyranny.  Consider  and  compare  these  things.  As 
I  have  already  told  you,  nature  has  not  made  you  to  be 
happy ;  she  has  condemned  you  to  be  great ;  submit,  there- 
fore, without  a  murmur. 

For  the  rest,  I  believe  what  you  tell  me  about  the  advan- 


72  LETTERS   OF  [1773 

tage  of  this  country  over  that  of  all  others.  I  do  not  know 
if  you  will  bring  back  from  your  travels  a  disgust  for  travel- 
ling, but  I  am  very  sure  you  will  have  lost  the  power  to  settle 
yourself  anywhere.  You  will  have  judged  with  justice  and 
accuracy  that  which  is  good,  that  which  is  better,  but  you  will 
do  as  the  Italians  do  with  music ;  they  prefer  novelty  to  excel- 
lence. I  beg  your  pardon  for  contradicting  your  words,  but 
you  must  agree  that  I  am  truly  on  the  tone  of  your  soul.  Do 
you  wish  me  to  talk  to  you  of  mine  ?  Here  is  the  state  of  it. 
Have  you  ever  watched  those  who  are  attacked  by  slow,  incur- 
able diseases  ?  When  you  inquire  of  those  who  are  nursing 
them,  the  answer  is,  "  As  well  as  can  be  expected ; "  which 
means  :  "  He  must  die,  but  he  has  a  few  moments  of  respite." 
That  is  precisely  the  state  of  health  of  my  soul.  To  a  most 
violent  storm  a  calm  has  succeeded.  The  soul's  condition  of 
him  I  love  is  such  as  I  could  wish  it,  and  according  to  my 
heart,  but  his  health  is  alarming.  Nevertheless,  I  am  sure 
that  he  makes  no  mistakes  of  regimen.  He  clings  to  life 
because  it  gladdens  him  to  love  and  to  be  loved ;  he  lives  for 
that  only.  Oh  !  if  you  knew  how  winning  he  is  !  Yes,  you 
might  love  me  a  little,  but  you  would  not  think  well  of  me 
for  being  capable  of  a  faithless  feeling  to  him.  Oh  !  who  are 
you  to  have  turned  me  for  an  instant  from  the  most  delight- 
ful, the  most  perfect  of  mankind  ?  Yes,  if  you  knew  him  — 
when  you  know  him  —  you  will  see  that  in  the  judgment  I 
pronounce  upon  him  there  is  neither  illusion  nor  l)ias. 

The  Chevalier  d'Aguesseau  will  have  written  you  that  I 
had  lost  all  patience.  I  sent  to  him  to  ask  news  of  you  and 
he  had  none  at  the  moment,  but  as  soon  as  he  received  your 
letter  of  the  8tli  he  sent  me  word  that  you  were  well.  I  was 
tempted  to  write  and  tliank  you  for  having  a  friend  to  relieve 
me  of  anxiety  ;  but  tlieu  1  thought  it  better  to  wait  till  I 
heard  from  you. 


1773]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  73 

Yes,  I  desire  to  wait  for  }'ou  —  always.  \VTiy  should  I  go 
faster  than  you  ?  I  should  only  weary  myself  and  clog  your 
steps.  I  desire  that  no  affections  shall  henceforth  agitate  me 
painfully  :  it  is  too  much.  I  know  not  how  I  have  sufficed 
so  far.  It  is  true  that  I  have  concentrated  my  strength  on  a 
single  point.  All  nature  is  dead  for  me,  except  certain  objects 
which  fill  and  vivify  every  moment  of  my  life.  I  exist  for 
nothing  else :  things,  pleasures,  distractions,  vanity,  social 
opinion,  all  that  is  no  longer  of  use  to  me ;  I  regret  the  time 
that  I  gave  to  it  —  though  indeed  it  was  very  short,  for  I  knew 
sorrow  early,  and  it  has  this  of  good  about  it ;  it  averts  many 
follies.  I  was  trained  by  that  great  teacher  of  men,  misfor- 
tune. That  was  the  language  that  pleased  you ;  it  touched 
the  feeling  spot  of  your  soul,  from  which  dissipation  and  the 
amiable  social  tone  of  this  country  is  forever  removing  you. 
You  were  glad  to  have  me  bring  you  back  to  what  you  once 
loved,  what  you  once  suffered.  Y^es,  there  is  a  species  of 
suffering  which  has  such  charm,  which  brings  such  sweetness 
into  the  soul,  that  we  are  ready  to  prefer  that  woe  to  all  that 
is  called  "  pleasm'e."  I  taste  that  joy  —  or  that  poison  — 
twice  a  week  ;  and  that  sort  of  nourishment  is  more  needful 
to  me  than  the  air  I  breathe. 

The  Comtesse  de  Bouffiers  talks  to  me  much  of  you  and 
of  what  she  writes  to  you  ;  she  likes  you  because  you  wrote 
"  Le  Connetable,"  and  that  is  indeed  enough  on  which  to  found 
a  liking.  Oh !  how  small  and  narrow  my  soul  is !  I  hate 
the  Patagonians  and  the  Liliputians  equally  —  but  what  are 
my  likes  and  dislikes  to  you  ? 

Y"ou  are  very  amiable  to  have  thought  of  making  your  writ- 
ing larger ;  but  I  am  inclined  to  complain  of  it,  for  it  cuts  me 
off  a  few  lines.  In  God's  name,  stay  what  you  are ;  scribble 
as  you  please,  travel  round  the  world,  but  begin  in  Paris ;  in 
a  word,  do  not  change  a  hair  from  your  style  of  being.     I  do 


74  LETTERS   OF  [1773 

not  know  if  it  is  the  best,  but  it  is  the  most  agreeable  to  me. 
Ts  not  such  praise  insipid  ?  Do  not  laugh  at  me  ;  I  am  very 
silly,  but  I  do  assure  you  I  am  a  good  soul  —  am  I  not  ? 

Sunday  evening,  August  1,  1773. 

You  are  too  good ;  you  surprise  me  with  kindness.  It  is 
delightful  to  have  a  pleasure  on  which  we  did  not  coimt,  and 
I  am  charmed  to  owe  you  an  emotion  which  has  done  good  to 
my  soul.  I  received  yesterday  a  letter  from  you  dated  the 
18th;  I  was  much  pleased  to  see  that  your  dates  are  getting 
closer  ;  you  no  longer  put  fifteen  days'  interval  between  them  ; 
and  I  do  not  owe  this  change  to  the  regrets  I  expressed  to  you, 
but  to  you  yourself,  to  your  friendship  :  I  like  far  better  that 
which  it  gives  me  than  that  which  I  obtain  myself.  I  wanted 
to  thank  you,  to  tell  you  feebly  that  which  I  feel  so  keenly, 
and  now  I  am  made  more  happy  still,  —  I  have  received  to- 
day another  letter  from  you  ! 

My  first  emotion  (I  know  not  why)  was  fear;  the  habit 
of  ill-fortune  spoils  all  things.  But  I  was  soon  reassured.  I 
found  you  kind,  full  of  feeling,  close  to  my  soul.  It  seemed 
to  me  I  ought  to  be  glad  for  having  suffered,  as  my  suffering 
was  of  interest  to  you.  Oh !  with  how  many  regrets  you 
fill  my  life!  I  might  enjoy  your  friendship;  it  might  be 
my  consolation,  it  might  be  my  pleasure,  but  you  are  a 
thousand  leagues  away !  I  cannot  escape  the  fear  that  so 
many  new  objects,  a  life  so  filled  and  occupied  as  that  you 
are  forced  to  lead,  may  destroy,  or  at  least  weaken  a  tie  and 
an  interest  to  which  there  is  lacking,  perhaps,  that  degree  of 
warmth  which  makes  it  a  need  of  the  heart,  or,  at  any  rate, 
a  habit.  I  admit  that  I  set  but  little  value  on  that  last  tie, 
which  is  the  sentiment  of  those  who  have  none ;  but  see  the 
baneful  disposition  of  my  soul :  I  fill  myself  with  fears,  re- 
grets, when  I  ought  to  enjoy  these  testimonies  and  proofs  of 


1773]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE;  75 

your  friendship.  It  is  so  sweet,  so  indulgent  —  that  friend- 
ship ;  you  forgive  me  all  my  injustice ;  I  have  Llamed  you 
a  thousand  times,  but  I  have  never  repented  giving  myself 
up  to  you  in  the  closest  confidence.  With  you  it  is  impos- 
sible to  feel  one's  self  mistaken,  and  thus  one  is  sheltered 
from  great  evils ;  for  remark  that  all  tragedies  are  founded  on 
misunderstandings,  and  that  almost  all  misfortunes  have  the 
same  cause.  But  do  not  punish  me  for  having  been  unjust  by 
no  longer  telling  me  of  that  wliicli  interests  you.  Tell  me  all 
you  feel  and  experience  and  I  promise  to  share  it,  and  to  tell 
you  the  impression  it  makes  upon  me.  I  love  you  too  well 
to  impose  the  least  restraint  upon  m}-self ;  I  prefer  to  have  to 
ask  your  pardon  rather  than  commit  n(  >  faults.  I  have  no  self- 
love  with  you ;  I  do  not  comprehend  those  rules  of  conduct 
that  make  us  so  content  with  self  and  so  cold  to  those  we 
love.  I  detest  prudence,  I  even  hate  (suffer  me  to  say  so) 
those  "  duties  of  friendship "  which  substitute  propriety  for 
interest,  and  circumspection  for  feeling.  How  shall  I  say  it  ? 
I  love  the  abandonment  to  impulse,  I  act  from  impulse  only, 
and  I  love  to  madness  that  others  do  the  same  by  me. 

Ah !  mon  Dieu !  how  far  I  am  from  being  equal  to  you ! 
I  have  not  your  virtues,  I  know  no  duties  with  my  friend ;  I 
am  closer  to  the  state  of  nature ;  savages  do  not  love  with 
more  simplicity  and  good  faith.  The  world,  misfortunes, 
evils,  nothing  has  corrupted  my  heart.  I  shall  never  be  on 
my  guard  against  you ;  I  shall  never  suspect  you.  You  say 
that  you  have  friendship  for  me ;  you  are  virtuous  ;  what  can 
I  fear  ?  I  will  let  you  see  the  trouble,  the  agitation  of  my 
soul,  and  I  shall  not  blush  to  seem  to  you  weak  and  incon- 
sistent. I  have  already  told  you  that  I  do  not  seek  to  please 
you ;  I  do  not  wish  to  usurp  your  esteem.  I  prefer  to  de- 
serve your  indulgence  —  in  short,  I  want  to  love  you  with  all 
my  heart  and  to  place  in  you  a  confidence  without  reserve. 


76  LETTERS   OF  [1773 

No,  I  do  not  think  you  "sly"  [fin] ;  I  think,  as  you  do, 
that  slyness  is  always  a  proof  of  famine  of  mind ;  but  I  do 
think  you  stiipid  for  not  understanding  that  which  has  been 
clearly  designated  to  you.  What  matters  his  name  ?  enough 
that  it  does  not  injure  that  which  I  have  told  you  of  himself. 
What  surprises  me  is  that  I  have  named  him  to  you  a  score 
of  times ;  this  proves  to  me,  what  I  did  not  believe,  that  I 
can  mention  his  name  like  that  of  any  other  man ;  but  I 
shall  be  still  more  surprised  if,  when  you  return,  you  cannot 
distinguish  him  among  the  others ;  for  I  assure  you  he  is  not 
made  to  be  lost  in  a  crowd ;  you  will  see. 

I  saw  the  Chevalier  d'Aguesseau  to-day,  and  was  proud 
to  be  able  to  give  him  news  of  you.  With  the  other  persons 
wl;o  expect  to  hear  from  you  I  have  a  contrary  feeling.  I 
fear  to  seem  to  them  more  fortunate  than  they,  and  thus  get 
you  blamed ;  for  most  women  have  no  need  of  being  loved, 
they  only  want  to  be  preferred. 

I  shall  be  very  glad  to  see  the  Chevalier  de  Chastellux 
once  more ;  still,  if  I  could  add  to  his  journey  what  I  desire 
to  subtract  from  yours,  I  should  not  see  him  soon.  (3bserve, 
I  beg  of  you,  how  I  reverse  the  chronological  order :  I  have 
loved  the  chevalier  these  eight  years.  Adieu  ;  I  have  not  told 
you  that  I  am  ill  as  a  dumb  animal ;  but  my  soul  suffers  less, 
therefore  I  must  not  complain. 

Sunday,  August  8,  1773. 

What  folly  to  go  in  search  of  you,  to  send  my  letter  to 
await  you  in  Breslau,  where  you  will  be  occupied  with  the 
king,  the  troops,  your  successes,  etc.,  and  nothing  will  incline 
you  to  cast  your  eyes  on  Paris.  I  am  wrong ;  Paris  is  too 
grand  to  be  forgotten,  but  me  you  would  overlook  in  the 
crowd.  Nevertheless,  if  I  did  not  fear  to  grieve  you  I 
should  say :  "  There  is  no  one  who  regrets  you  more  sincerely 
than  I."    Every  one  is  busy  or  dissipating.    I  alone,  I  believe. 


1773]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  77 

cannot  lose  from  sight  that  which  distresses  me,  or  that 
which  I  desire.  I  do  not  know  how  persons  manage  to  grow 
used  to  privations ;  those  that  touch  the  soul  are  so  keen ! 
they  have  no  compensations. 

I  cannot  believe  that  it  is  only  three  months  since  you 
departed ;  still  less  can  I  conceive  how  I  can  wait  for  }-ou 
till  the  end  of  November.  Your  presence  could  not  fail  to 
comfort  me ;  I  regret  it  as  my  pleasure.  Ah !  friendship, 
that  blessing  of  nature,  is  it  to  me  a  fresh  sorrow  ?  Does  all 
that  affects  my  soul  turn  to  poison  ?  You  were  to  me  a  charm- 
ing acquaintance ;  your  tone,  yom'  manners,  your  mind,  they 
all  pleased  me ;  a  higher  degree  of  interest  in  you  has  spoiled 
all :  I  yielded  myself  up  to  the  good  you  did  me.  Ah  !  why 
have  you  penetrated  within  my  soul  ?  Why  did  you  show  me 
yours  ?  Why  establish  so  intimate  an  intercourse  between 
two  persons  whom  all  things  separate  ?  Is  it  you,  or  is  it  I, 
who  are  guilty  of  the  species  of  pain  from  which  I  suffer  ? 
Sometimes  I  am  arrested  in  my  desire  for  your  return  by  the 
fear  that  you  will  wound  my  friendship ;  and  yet  it  is  not 
exacting.  You  will  be  so  occupied,  so  carried-away,  so  dissi- 
pated, that,  perhaps,  you  may  be  as  far  from  me  in  Paris 
as  at  Breslau.  Well,  so  be  it ;  I  shall  see  you  seldom  and 
await  you  often  ;  that  will  be  something. 

But  are  you  not  thinkmg  to  shorten  your  journey  rather 
than  prolong  it  ?  W^hat  can  you  see  better  or  more  inter- 
esting than  what  you  are  now  seeing  in  Silesia  ?  And  then 
if  you  go  to  Sweden  and  do  not  write  from  there  you  will 
receive  no  letters ;  we  may  be  three  months  without  news  of 
you,  and  that  would  no  longer  be  absence,  it  would  be  death. 
In  a  word,  be  it  justice  or  generosity,  I  must  have  news  of  you, 
and  there  is  neither  reason  nor  pretext  which  can  justify  you 
for  being  so  long  without  writing  to  me  as  you  were  between 
Prague  and  Vienna.     Reflect  that  you  owe  much  to  my  con- 


78  LETTERS   OF  [1773 

dition ;  I  am  ill,  I  am  unhappy ;  does  not  that  solicit  your 
goodness  ?  What  it  grants  will  be  repaid  by  infinite  grati- 
tude. Good  God !  what  a  poor  motive  !  what  a  pitiable 
sentiment !     Do  you  not  think  so  ? 

I  have  just  read  an  extract  from  the  "  Eulogj'  on  Colbert " 
now  competing  at  the  French  Academy.  The  tone  of  it 
seemed  to  me  so  firm,  so  noble,  so  lofty,  so  original,  that  I 
suddenly  wished  it  were  yours.  I  do  not  know  if  the  rest  is 
as  worthy,  but  you  would  not  disavow  the  little  I  have  seen 
of  it.^  I  have  had  fever  for  some  days;  the  last  time  I 
wrote  to  you  I  finished  my  letter  while  trembling  in  a  chill. 
There  is  a  certain  postman  who,  for  the  past  year,  has  given 
fever  to  my  soul,  Ijut  now  it  has  attained  my  poor  body.  I 
feel  destroyed ;  and  I  have  always  been  so  unfortunate  that 
something  tells  me  I  shall  die  at  the  moment  when  my  mis- 
fortunes end.  Eeturn,  and  at  least  I  shall  be  sure  of  having 
tasted  before  I  die  a  cons(jlation  very  sweet  to  my  soul.  I 
reproach  myself  for  ever  having  been  unjust  to  you.  Mon 
Dieu  !  you  have  suffered,  and  you  will  pardon  me  ;  there  are 
situations  which  ask  for  so  mucli  indulgence ! 

I  have  read  the  long-expected  book  of  M.  Helvetius  ["  Of 
Man;  his  Intellectual  Faculties  and  his  Education,"  a  post- 
humous work].  I  was  alarmed  at  its  size ;  two  volumes,  of 
six  hundred  pages  each  !  Your  voracity  would  have  made  an 
end  of  it  in  two  days ;  but  as  for  me,  I  can  no  longer  read 
with  interest ;  my  affections  withhold  my  attention ;  I  read 
what  I  feel,  and  not  what  I  see.  Ah !  mon  Dieu  !  how  the 
mind  shrinks  by  loving !  it  is  true  that  the  soul  does  not, 
but  what  can  one  do  with  a  soul  ?  I  forgot  to  answer  you 
aljout  the  affair  of  Comte  de  C  .  .  . ;  it  is  even  less  advanced 
than  at  first;  you  could  hardly  believe  what  a  poor  creature 
he  is  on  whom  the  matter  depends ;  he  is  not  stupid,  but  the 

^  It  was  by  M.  Neeker,  and  Utok  tlii'  prize.  —  Fr.  Ed. 


1773]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  79 

silliest  of  men.  His  wife  is  better  than  he  ;  but  the  absorp- 
tion she  has  in  herself  absorbs  all  her  faculties.  On  the 
whole,  they  are  persons  whose  real  merit  is  to  have  a  good 
cook.  How  many  people  of  whom  the  world  speaks  well 
have  no  other  value !  No,  the  human  species  is  not  wicked  ; 
it  is  only  silly,  and  in  Paris  it  is  as  vain  and  frivolous  as  it 
is  silly;  but  no  matter,  provided  what  one  loves  is  kind, 
amiable,  and  excellent. 

Ah  !  if  )'ou  knew  what  amuses  and  attracts  the  public !  — 
a  tragedy  by  M.  Dorat  (devoid  of  wit,  interest,  and  talent), 
and  next  a  comedy  by  M.  Dorat,  which  is  a  masterpiece  of 
bad  taste  and  bad  style ;  it  is  an  imintelligible  jargon.  The 
applause  given  to  it  really  saddened  me  the  other  day ;  it 
is  enough  to  discourage  talent. 

Sunday,  August  15,  1773. 

Listen  to  me,  and  once  for  all  l)elieve  that  I  cannot  wrong 
you,  and  you  know  why  I  cannot  wrong  you.  I  have  not 
been  negligent ;  this  is  my  fifth  letter  since  July,  3d.  I  do 
not  see  why  you  had  not  received  mine  of  Jul}-  15th  on  the 
3d  of  August.  I  cannot  endure  the  irregularities  of  the 
post ;  they  are  the  torment  of  my  life ;  but  you  surprise  me, 
you,  by  attaching  such  importance  to  my  letters.  How  could 
you  have  the  idea  that  I  meant  to  harass  you  ?  Pimish  you  ? 
—  and  for  what  ?  Supposing,  what  is  assuredly  not  so,  that 
I  were  dissatisfied  with  your  friendship,  have  I  the  right  to 
complain  of  it  ?  Would  it  not  be  the  height  of  imperti- 
nence to  imagine  that  the  loss  of  my  letters  was  a  painful 
privation  to  you  ?  If  I  tell  you  that  I  am  not  so  foolishly 
vain  as  most  women,  you  are  not  obliged  to  believe  me ;  but 
know  me  better  and  you  will  find  that  I  receive  as  a  favour 
that  which  is  given  me ;  that  I  enjoy  it  with  feeling,  and 
respond  to  it  with  all  the  tenderness  and  sincerity  of  my 
soul ;  but  never  do  I  feel  myself  prompted  by  the  sort  of 


80  LETTERS   OF  [1773 

confidence  that  is  found,  not  in  the  heart,  but  in  a  vanity  that 
exacts  from  those  we  love,  and  sometimes  dares  to  put  them 
to  the  proof.  Intercourse  with  the  world  has  not  altered  the 
simplicity  and  truth  of  my  sentiments.  Eemark  that  I  am 
not  praising,  but  defending  myself. 

I  am  sorry  and  uneasy  about  the  pain  in  your  leg ;  you 
do  not  take  care  of  it,  though  you  say  you  do;  and  I  am 
more  uneasy  at  that  than  for  the  pain  itself.  Alas !  the 
great  evil  of  absence  is  ignorance  of  the  details  that  touch 
us  closely.  While  saying  much,  still  more  is  left  unsaid ; 
and  it  seems  to  me  that  my  friend  always  omits  tliat  which 
I  most  need  to  know.  Why  do  you  wear  yourself  out  with 
fatigue  ?  The  loss  of  sleep  exhausts  the  brain,  and,  strong  as 
you  may  be,  I  am  certain  that  b}-  sitting  up  all  night  you  do 
not  get  the  best  of  the  things  and  objects  you  are  seeking  to 
observe  —  not  to  speak  of  the  risk  you  run  of  weakening 
your  health.  To  reach  the  object  for  which  you  aim,  you 
must  not  only  live,  but  keep  well ;  in  exalting  the  soul  to 
the  point  of  sacrificing  all  to  its  love  of  glory,  I  believe  it  is 
well  to  preserve  the  stomach.  Ah  !  if  you  knew  how  physi- 
cal sufferings  belittle  the  soul  you  would  not  squander  as 
you  do  3'our  sleep  and  your  strength.  I  am  speaking  a  very 
trivial  language  to  you,  but  it  is  that  of  friendship.  Eemark 
that  those  who  wish  to  please  never  say  a  word  of  all  this. 
The  tone  of  interest  has  no  grace,  it  is  ponderous,  it  repeats 
itself  —  but  it  does  not  weary  those  who  feel  it  for  one  who 
deserves  it  so  well. 

I  cannot  help  thinking  that  the  uueasmess  in  which  you 
were  when  you  wrote  to  me  disturbed  your  judgment  a  little. 
You  urged  me  to  write  to  you  without  telling  me  where  to 
address  my  letter.  I  know  that  you  were  not  in  Vienna 
after  the  12th  at  the  latest,  yet  I  must  send  my  letter  there ; 
there  is  no  sense  in  that.     And  another  thing,  equally  sense- 


1773]  MLLE.   DE  LESPINASSE.  81 

less,  was  writing  to  you  at  Breslaii.  But  why,  when  making 
the  tour  of  the  world,  should  any  one  desire  to  hear  from  his 
friends  ?  Yes,  you  are  very  inconsistent !  in  fact,  there  are 
moments  when  I  am  so  weary  that  I  am  tempted  to  leave 
you  on  the  way.  I  am  ill,  I  am  sad,  and  it  seems  to  me  that 
I  should  serve  you  best  by  letting  myself  be  forgotten.  The 
more  kindness,  the  more  feeling  you  might  show  me,  the 
more  I  should  dare  to  tell  you  that  you  will  often  repent 
havmg  yielded  yourself  too  quickly  to  an  intimacy  from 
which  I  alone  obtain  advantage. 

There  is  a  clause  in  your  letter  on  which  I  dared  not  rest 
my  eyes,  though  my  soul  fastened  on  it.  Mon  Dieu  I  what 
word  was  that  you  said  !  it  froze  my  blood  !  No,  no,  my  soul 
shall  seek  for  yours  no  more.  Ah  !  that  thought  will  kill 
me  !  Be  my  consolation ;  calm,  if  you  can,  the  trouble  of  my 
soul ;  but  do  not  think  that  I  could,  for  one  iastant,  sur\dve  a 
disaster  the  very  fear  of  which  fills  my  life  with  a  terror  that 
has-destroyed  my  health  and  disturbs,  incessantly,  my  reason. 

Adieu,  I  cannot  continue  ;  my  heart  is  wrung ;  if  I  compose 
my  mind  I  will  resume ;  because  I  must  justify  myself  on 
the  matter  of  which  you  speak,  and  ask  your  pardon,  though 
I  am  not  guilty. 

Still  Sunday. 

I  intended  to  warn  you  that  I  had  repeated  your  remark 
on  the  King  of  Prussia,  which  was  so  charming  that  I 
thought  I  might  do  so  without  impropriety.  It  was  thought 
what  it  is,  and  it  went  far  and  wide  until  it  reached  Mme. 
du  Deffand,  who  thought  it  very  bad,  and  twisted  and 
commented  upon  it,  and  foimd,  as  she  thought,  many  con- 
tradictions to  it.  She  ended  by  saying  that  if  your  "  Conn^- 
table  "  were  another  "  Athalie  "  it  would  not  prevent  her  from 
thinking  the  form  and  basis  of  that  thought  of  yours  de- 
testable.    Some   days  later   she    spoke  of   it   in   the    same 

6 


82  LETTERS  OF  [1773 

tone  to  the  ,  Neapolitan  ambassador  [Caraccioli]  ;  this 
made  him  angry,  and  he  told  her  that  when  people  criti- 
cised they  ought  to  quote  honestly,  and  by  changing  the 
words  of  the  speech  he  thought  her  criticism  as  unjust  as  it 
was  severe.  Mme.  de  Luxembourg  and  Mme.  de  Beauvau, 
before  whom  this  occurred  and  who  were  against  Mme.  du 
Deffand,  asked  the  ambassador  for  a  copy  of  the  actual 
remark ;  he  promised  it ;  then  he  came  and  told  me  the 
whole  of  this  silly  dispute,  and  I  own  that  the  pleasure  of 
confounding  Mme.  du  Deffand  made  me  yield  to  his  request. 
I  copied  the  three  lines  for  him  and  he  went  off'  triumphant. 
Mme.  du  Deffand  was  confounded ;  at  any  rate  she  dared  no 
longer  disparage  that  which  everybody  else  thought  charm- 
ing. Until  then,  there  had  been  no  question  to  whom  you 
had  written  it.  She  now  took  it  into  her  head  to  ask 
that  question  ;  the  ambassador  refused  to  reply,  and  this 
increased  her  curiosity.  Finally,  he  said  it  was  written  to 
me,  and  added :  "  No  doubt  it  was  a  presentiment  that  made 
you  condemn  a  saying  so  full  of  wit  and  grace."  —  There  's 
a  long  tale ;  I  should  have  told  you  earlier,  but  it  seemed 
to  me  rather  paltry  to  send  a  thousand  leagues.  I  must 
add  that  the  ambassador  brought  the  copy  back  to  me,  and 
I  burned  it.  Just  see  what  silly  things  occupy  these  people 
of  the  world !  what  empty  minds  it  proves !  Yes,  unhappi- 
ness  is  good  for  something;  it  corrects  the  little  passions 
which  agitate  the  idle  and  the  corrupt.  Ah !  if  they  could 
only  love  they  would  all  become  good. 

You  can  see,  now,  whether  I  was  guilty  of  indiscretion. 
If  you  say  I  was,  I  shall  believe  it ;  but  do  not  tell  me  that 
people  will  think  "  we  wa-ite  to  each  other  to  say  witty 
things."  Ah !  what  matter  to  us  if  fools  and  malicious  peo- 
ple tliink  so  ?  They  are  strong  only  when  they  are  feared ; 
I  hate  and  flee  them,  but  I  fear  them  no  longer.     For  sev- 


1773]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  83 

eral  years  I  have  so  weighed  and  estimated  those  who  judge 
that  I  dare  not  tell  you  the  contempt  I  have  for  opinion.  I 
do  not  wish  to  brave  it,  and  that  is  all.  There  is  a  passion 
that  closes  the  soul  to  all  the  miseries  which  torture  the 
people  of  the  great  world ;  I  have  the  sad  experience  of 
it.  A  great  woe  kills  all  the  rest.  There  is  but  one  in- 
terest, one  pleasure,  one  misfortune,  and  a  single  judge 
for  me  in  all  creation.  Oh  !  no,  I  am  not  petty.  Eeflect 
that  I  hold  to  life  at  one  point  only ;  if  it  escapes  me, 
I  shall  die.  From  this  inward  conviction,  profound  and 
permanent,  you  can  readily  believe  that  all  else  is  annihi- 
lated for  me.  I  know  not  by  what  fatality  —  or  what 
good  fortune  —  I  became  susceptible  of  a  new  affection : 
searching  within  myself  I  can  neither  find  nor  explain  its 
cause ;  but,  such  as  it  is,  its  effects  have  brought  sweetness 
to  my  life.  It  seems  to  me  an  astounding  thing  that  my 
sorrows  should  interest  you  ;  it  proves  to  me  the  goodness, 
the  sensibility  of  your  heart.  I  reproach  myself,  just  now, 
for  the  remorse  I  have  felt  in  yielding  to  my  penchant  for 
you  :  sorrow  makes  one  severe  to  one's  self ;  I  feel  guilty 
for  the  good  you  do  me.  Is  it  now,  or  was  it  then  that  I 
made  myself  illusions  ?  On  my  honour  I  do  not  know. 
But  you,  whose  soul  is  not  convulsed  by  trouble,  you  can 
judge  me  better ;  and  when  I  see  you,  you  will  tell  me  if  I 
ought  to  rejoice  or  despair  at  the  feelings  you  inspire  within 
me.  —  I  received  yesterday  news  of  him  which  alarms  me ; 
his  health  does  not  improve ;  he  is  perpetually  threatened  by 
a  fatal  attack  from  which  he  has  been  twice  at  death's  door 
within  a  year ;  how  is  it  possible  that  he  should  live  ?  Adieu ; 
send  me  news  of  youi"self. 

Monday,  August  16,  1773. 
I  open  my  letter  to  tell  you  how  conscious  I  am  of  yx)ur 
kindness  in  being  so  uneasy  at  receiving  no  letter  from  me. 


84  LETTERS   OF  (1773 

I  cannot  imagine  why  ;  for  my  friends  take  my  letters  them- 
selves to  the  general  post-office.  Why  have  you  renounced 
your  journey  to  the  North  ?  I  cannot  believe  it  is  solely  to 
shorten  the  period  of  your  absence.  To  whom  are  you  mak- 
ing the  sacrifice  of  Sweden  ?  If  some  one  has  exacted  it,  you 
are  doubtless  content.  Well,  if  your  return  is  hastened  I 
will  love  the  person  or  thing  that  is  the  cause  of  it.  But 
next  year  ?  must  you  go  to  Eussia  ?  and  must  you  not  go  at 
once  to  Montauban  ?  and  then  to  that  country-seat  where  you 
will  find  pleasure  and  seek  happiness,  and  then  —  and  then 
—  but  no  matter,  anythmg  is  better  than  Sweden;  and  I 
know  not  —  that  is,  something  tells  me  not  to  be  anxious 
about  what  may  happen  next  year ;  as  you  say  yourself, 
there  is  time  between  now  and  then  to  die  a  hundred 
times. 

You  have  made  me  a  reproach  ;  I  have  a  mind  to  return  it : 
are  you  guilty  of  what  the  Chevalier  de  Chastellux  has  writ- 
ten to  me,  namely,  that  I  love  you  deeply  ?  How  does  he 
know  it  ?  I  have  given  my  secret  to  none  but  you  and  him 
to  whom  I  tell  all.  Can  it  be  that  you  have  told  the  Cheva- 
lier ?     If  it  were  so,  I  could  only  thank  you,  and  complain. 

M.  d'Alembert  is  at  this  moment  with  Mme.  Geoffrin.  I  do 
not  doubt  she  will  think  it  a  pleasure  to  write  to  the  King 
of  Poland  [Stanislas-Poniatowski].  It  occurs  to  me  that  in 
this  long  letter*!  have  omitted  a  rather  interesting  point :  my 
health ;  it  is  detestable ;  I  cough  friglitfully,  and  with  such 
effort  that  I  spit  blood.  I  spend  a  part  of  my  life  unable  to 
speak  ;  my  voice  is  extinct,  but  this  of  all  inconveniences  is 
the  one  that  suits  the  inclinations  of  my  soul  the  best ;  I  like 
silence,  meditation,  retirement.  I  do  not  sleep,  or  scarcely 
so,  and  I  am  never  dull.  You  will  think  from  this  that  I 
must  be  very  happy.  If  I  add  that  I  would  not  change  my 
condition  for  that  of  any  other  living  being  you  will  think 


1773]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.       •  85 

me  in  paradise  —  and  you  will  be  wrong ;  to  go  there  one 
.  must  die,  and  that  is  what  I  wish  to  do.     But  come ;  and 
write  me  often,  often. 

August  22,  1773. 
I  received  yesterday  your  letter  of  the  10th,  and  it  has 
done  me  good.  If  you  only  knew  what  I  have  suffered  dur- 
ing the  last  eight  days!  how  wrung  with  grief  my  heart  has 
been  !  in  what  distress,  in  what  alarms  my  life  is  spent !  I 
have  no  longer  the  liberty  to  free  myself;  it  is  awful;  and 
it  is  not  in  the  power  of  him  I  love  to  make  my  troubles 
cease.  He  knows  them,  he  suffers  from  them,  he  is  still 
more  unliappy  than  I,  because  his  soul  is  stronger,  and  has 
more  energy,  more  sensibility  than  mine.  For  one  whole 
year  every  moment  of  his  life  has  been  marked  by  misfor- 
tune ;  he  must  die  of  it,  yet  he  wills  that  I  shall  live.  Oh ! 
my  God  !  my  soul  cannot  suffice  for  what  it  feels  and  what 
it  suffers.  See  my  weakness,  see  how  sorrow  makes  one 
selfish  and  indiscreet;  I  make  you  think  of  me,  I  sadden 
you  perhaps.  Ah  !  forgive  me ;  this  excess  of  confidence 
comes  from  my  friendship,  my  tender  friendship  for  you. 
You  have  shown  me  such  kindness,  such  indulgence  that  it 
seems  to  me  I  cannot  abuse  it.  If  you,  alas  !  were  to  suffer, 
who  could  feel  and  share  it  more  than  I  ?  You  see  within 
my  soul,  you  know  what  it  has  for  you.  Ah !  I  feel,  at  the 
summit  of  woe,  invoking  death  at  every  instant,  that  it  will 
cost  me  a  regret  to  leave  you ;  you  console  me,  and  yet  I 
sink  beneath  the  weight  of  my  sorrows  —  No,  no !  they 
are  not  mine  that  rend  me,  they  are  his,  for  which  I  have 
neither  remedy  nor  consolation :  that  is  the  torture  of  a 
feelmg  and  devoted  soul.  You  have  loved,  you  will  under- 
stand and  pity  me. 

After  what   you  wrote  to    M.  d'Alembert   I  counted  on 
seeing  you  by  the  end  of    September,  and  now  I  find  you 


86  LETTERS   OF  [1773 

will  not  be  here  till  the  end  of  October ;  but  will  you  be 
here  then  ?  Alas !  I  know  not  if  I  may  dare  to  hope  so  far 
before  me.  Perhaps  I  am  speaking  to  you  now  for  the  last 
time.  I  dare  not  permit  myself  either  hope  or  project.  Ah ! 
I  had  suffered  much  from  the  injustice  and  malignancy 
of  men ;  they  reduced  me  to  despair ;  but  I  here  avow  that 
there  is  no  sorrow  comparable  to  that  of  a  deep,  unhappy 
passion :  it  has  effaced  my  ten  years'  early  torture.  It  seems 
to  me  that  I  live  only  since  I  love;  all  that  affected  me,  all 
that  rendered  me  unhappy  until  then  is  obliterated ;  and  yet 
in  the  eyes  of  calm  and  reasonable  people  I  have  no  sorrows 
but  those  I  have  ceased  to  feel;  they  call  passion  a  ficti- 
tious sorrow.  Alas  !  it  is  because  they  love  nothing,  because 
they  live  only  for  vanity  and  ambition,  and  I,  I  live  only  to 
love ;  no  longer  have  I  the  tone  or  the  feelings  of  society. 
More  than  that,  I  am  uicapable  of  fulfilling  its  duties  ;  but 
fortunately  I  am  free,  I  am  independent,  and  in  yielding 
myself  up  wholly  to  my  inclinations  I  have  no  remorse, 
because  I  harm  no  one.  But  see  how  little  you  ought  to 
think  of  me ;  I  reproach  myself  often  for  the  kindness  and 
the  esteem  that  is  shown  to  me  ;  I  usurp  so  much  in  society ; 
people  judge  me  too  favourably  because  they  do  not  know 
me.  It  is  true  that  I  have  been  so  great  a  victim  to  calumny 
and  the  malice  of  enemies  that  I  feel  my  present  position  to 
be  a  sort  of  compensation. 

May  I  make  you  a  reproach  ?  my  friendship  misses  your 
confidence ;  you  no  longer  tell  me  of  yourself ;  why  is  that  ? 
I  was  unjust  to  you  once,  I  know  ;  is  it  thus  you  punish  me  ? 
How  is  it  that  if  you  love  you  have  nothing  to  say  to  me  ? 
You  suffer,  you  hope,  you  enjoy ;  why,  then,  do  you  tell  me 
nothing  ?  You  speak  to  me  so  little  of  yourself  that  your 
letters  might  go  to  nearly  every  woman  of  your  acquaint- 
ance.    It  is   not   so  with    mine;   they  can   go   to   but  one 


1773]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  87 

address.  Am  I  wrong  ?  is  it  too  much  to  exact  equality  in 
confidence  ?  This  is  the  fourth  letter  you  have  still  to 
acknowledge,  do  not  forget  that.  I  think  it  was  folly  to 
have  written  to  you  at  Breslau ;  you  may  not  have  thought 
of  the  post  and  my  letter  will  still  be  there.  You  must 
burn  all  my  letters.  I  fancy  that  I  see  them  falling  in  great 
bundles  from  your  pockets ;  the  disorder  in  which  you  keep 
your  papers  affects  my  confidence  —  but  you  see  it  does  not 
check  it.  Adieu.  I  have  pain  in  my  chest.  Is  your  leg 
cured  ?     Send  me  news  of  yourself. 

Monday,  September  6,  1773. 

Your  silence  hurts  me.  I  do  not  blame  you,  but  I  suffer, 
and  I  can  scarcely  persuade  myself  that  if  your  interest  were 
equal  to  mine  I  should  be  one  month  without  hearing  from 
you.  Mon  Dieu  !  tell  me,  what  value  do  you  place  on  friend- 
ship if  absence  and  travel  distract  you  from  it  wholly  ?  Ah ! 
how  fortunate  you  are  !  A  king,  an  emperor,  troops,  camps, 
can  make  you  forget  the  one  who  loves  you  and  (more  touch- 
ing perhaps  to  a  feeling  soul)  tlie  person  whom  your  friend- 
ship sustains  and  consoles.  No ;  I  do  not  blame  you  ;  I 
even  wish  that  your  forgetfulness  did  not  seem  to  me  a 
wrong ;  I  should  like  to  find  within  me  the  disposition  that 
approves  of  all,  or  suffers  all  without  complaint. 

I  know  not  why  I  was  persuaded  that  I  should  hear  from 
you  at  Breslau  whether  you  received  my  letter,  or  whether 
it  were  lost ;  my  hope  was  balked.  Oh !  I  hate  you  for 
making  me  know  hope,  fear,  pain,  pleasure ;  I  had  no  need 
of  those  emotions  —  why  did  you  not  leave  me  in  repose  ? 
My  soul  had  no  need  to  love ;  it  was  filled  with  a  tender  senti- 
ment, profound,  participated,  mutual,  but  sorrowful  neverthe- 
less ;  and  that  son-ow  was  the  emotion  that  drew  me  to  you. 
I    meant   that   you   should   only  please  me,  but   you   have 


88  LETTERS  OF  [1773 

touched  me ;  in  consoling  me  you  have  bound  me  to  you, 
and  the  singular  thing  is  that  the  good  you  have  done  me, 
which  I  received  without  consenting  to  it,  far  from  rendering 
me  supple,  docile,  like  other  persons  who  receive  favours, 
seems,  on  the  contrary,  to  have  given  me  the  right  to  be 
exacting  on  your  friendship.  You,  who  judge  from  heights 
and  see  into  depths,  tell  me  if  that  is  the  action  of  an 
ungrateful  soul,  or  of  one  too  sensitive  :  whatever  you  say  of 
it  I  shall  believe. 

Keturn  speedily ;  I  see  the  days  slip  by  with  a  pleasure 
I  cannot  express.  They  say  the  past  is  nothing;  but  as  for 
me,  it  crushes  me  ;  it  is  precisely  because  I  have  suffered  so 
much  that  it  is  so  dreadful  to  me  to  suffer  still.  Ah  !  but 
there  is  madness  in  promising  myself  some  sweetness,  some 
consolation  in  your  friendship ;  you  will  have  gained  so 
many  new  ideas,  your  soul  lias  been  agitated  by  so  many 
diverse  sentiments  that  no  trace  of  the  impression  you 
received  of  my  sorrow  and  my  confidence  will  remain.  But 
come,  come  at  any  rate ;  I  shall  judge,  and  I  shall  see  clear  — 
for  illusions  are  not  for  the  sorrowful.  Besides,  you  have  as 
much  openness  as  I  have  truth ;  we  shall  not  for  one 
moment  deceive  ourselves  ;  come,  therefore,  and  do  not  bring 
back  from  your  journey  the  melanclioly  impressions  the 
Chevalier  de  Chastellux  has  brought  from  Italy.  He  speaks 
of  all  that  he  has  seen  without  pleasure,  and  all  that  he  now 
sees  gives  him  but  little  more.  I  would  not  change  my 
ways  of  thinking  for  his,  and  yet  I  pass  my  life  in  convul- 
sions of  fear  and  pain ;  but  then,  what  I  expect,  what  I 
desire,  what  I  obtain,  what  is  given  to  me,  has  such  value  to 
my  soul!  I  live,  I  exist  with  such  force  that  there  are 
moments  when  I  find  myself  lovmg  madly  to  my  own 
unhappiness.  Ought  I  not  to  cling  to  it  ?  ought  it  not  to  be 
dear  to  me  ?     It  caused  me  to  know  you,  to  love  you,  and, 


1773]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  89 

perhaps,  to  have  one  friend  the  more  —  for  you  tell  me  so. 
If  I  had  been  calm,  reasonable,  cold,  all  this  would  not  have 
happened.  I  should  vegetate  with  the  other  women,  who 
flirt  their  fans  and  discuss  the  sentence  on  M.  de  Morangies 
and  the  arrival  of  the  Comtesse  de  Provence. 

Yes,  I  repeat  it :  I  prefer  my  griefs  to  all  that  people  in 
society  call  happiness  and  pleasure.  I  may  die  of  them  per- 
haps, but  that  is  better  than  never  having  lived.  Do  you 
understand  me  ?  are  you  on  my  key  ?  have  you  forgotten  that 
you  too  have  been  as  ill,  but  more  fortunate  than  I  ?  Adieu ; 
I  do  not  know  how  it  is,  I  meant  to  write  you  four  lines  only, 
but  my  pleasure  in  doing  so  has  led  me  on.  How  many 
persons  are  there  whom  you  will  see  on  your  return  with 
greater  pleasure  than  you  will  me  ?  I  will  give  you  the  list : 
Madame  de  .  .  .  ,  the  Chevalier  d'Aguesseau,  the  Comte 
de  Broglie,  the  Prince  de  Beauvau,  the  Comte  de  Eocham- 
beau,  etc.,  etc.,  and  Mesdames  de  Beauvau,  de  Boufflers,  de 
Rochambeau,  de  Martin ville,  etc.,  etc. ;  then  the  Chevalier  de 
Chastellux,  and  then  I,  at  last,  the  last.  Ah  !  see  the  differ- 
ence :  I  can  name  but  one  against  your  ten ;  the  heart  does 
not  conduct  itself  by  law  and  justice ;  it  is  despotic  and 
absolute.     I  forgive  you ;  but  —  return. 

M.  d'Alembert  awaits  you  with  impatience.  The  Cheva- 
lier de  Chastellux  is  absorbed  by  the  comedies  at  Mme. 
d'Epinay's,  but  his  tone  is  cold  and  sad.  Adieu  ;  do  you  really 
think  that  I  shall  see  you  in  a  month  ?  That  is  too  far  off 
to  feel  any  pleasure  from  it  yet. 

November,  1773. 

Here  I  am  :  courage  failed  me  !  When  I  have  not  what  I 
love  I  prefer  to  be  alone :  I  talk  then  to  my  friends  more 
intimately,  —  more  unreservedly.  I  have  just  written  for 
three  hours,  and  I  am  blinded  by  it,  but  not  wearied.  Mme. 
de  Boufflers  permits  me  to  ask  you  for  a  copy  of  her  letter ; 


90  LETTERS   OF  [1773 

bring  it  to  ine  to-morrow,  I  beg  of  you  ;  and  bring  me  also  the 
continuation  of  your  journey  which  gives  me  such  infinite 
pleasure.  Is  it  in  the  morning  or  is  it  in  the  evening  that  I 
am  to  see  you  ?  I  should  like  the  morning,  because  that  is 
sooner,  and  the  evening,  because  that  is  longer,  but  I  shall 
like  whatever  you  choose  to  give  me.  Adieu  ;  I  did  not  sleep 
last  night. 

Ilalf-past  eight  o'clock,  1773. 

Mon  ami,  I  shall  not  see  you,  and  you  will  tell  me  that  it 
is  not  your  fault !  but  if  you  had  had  the  thousandth  part  of 
the  desire  I  have  to  see  you,  you  would  be  here,  and  I  should 
be  happy.  No,  I  am  wrong,  I  should  suffer ;  but  I  should 
not  envy  the  pleasures  of  heaven.  Mon  ami,  I  love  you  as 
one  should  love,  to  excess,  to  madness,  with  transport  and 
despair.  All  these  last  days  you  have  put  my  soul  to  the 
torture  ;  I  saw  you  this  morning,  and  1  forgot  it  all !  It  seems 
to  me  that  I  cannot  do  enough  for  you  in  loving  you  with  all 
my  soul,  in  being  in  the  mind  to  live  and  die  for  you.  You 
are  worth  more  than  that ;  yes,  if  I  only  loved  you,  it  would 
be  nothing ;  for  what  is  sweeter  and  more  natural  than  to 
love  wildly  that  which  is  perfectly  lovable  ?  Mon  ami,  I 
can  do  better  than  love,  I  know  how  to  suffer ;  I  know  how 
to  renounce  my  pleasure  for  your  happiness.  But  there  is 
one  who  troubles  the  satisfaction  I  should  have  in  proving 
to  you  that  I  love  you. 

Do  you  know  why  I  write  to  you  ?  Because  it  pleases  me  ; 
you  would  never  think  it  if  I  did  not  tell  you.  But  oh ! 
where  are  you  ?  If  you  are  happy  I  must  not  complain  that 
you  have  taken  happiness  from  me. 

December,  1773. 

Good-morning,  mon  ami.  Have  you  slept  ?  how  are  you  ? 
shall  I  see  you  ?  Ah  !  take  nothing  from  me  ;  the  time  is  so 
short  and  I  set  such  value  on  that  which  I  spend  in  seeing 


1773]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  91 

you.  Mon  ami,  I  have  no  opium  in  my  head,  nor  in  my 
blood ;  I  have  worse  than  that,  I  have  that  which  would 
make  me  bless  heaven  and  treasure  life  if  he  I  love  were 
inspired  with  the  same  emotion ;  but  alas  !  what  we  love  is 
made  to  be  the  torment,  the  despair  of  the  soul  that  feels  ? 
Good-bye ;  I  want  to  see  you,  you  ought  to  come  and  dine 
with  me  at  Mme.  GeoiTrin's.  I  dared  not  tell  you  so  last 
night.  Yes,  you  ought  to  love  me  passionately ;  I  exact 
nothing ;  I  pardon  all ;  and  I  have  never  had  an  angry 
feeling,  mon  ami  ;  I  am  perfect,  for  I  love  you  in  perfection. 

Four  o'clock,  1773. 

You  have  not  started ;  at  least,  I  hope  not.  This  is  what 
I  fancy  you  will  have  said  to  yourself :  "  The  weather  is 
dreadful;  I  will  go  to-morrow  to  the  country,  I  will  be 
driven  there ;  I  will  see  her  this  afternoon ;  I  will  go  and 
spend  the  evening  with  Mme.  de  V  .  .  ."  Mon  ami,  if  you 
can  reason  thus,  M.  d'Alembert  will  permit  you  to  argue 
in  future,  and  you  will  not  be  reduced  to  making  or  not 
making  Conn^tables.  Racine  would  never  have  allowed 
any  one  to  prevent  him  from  writing  his  "  Letters  "  on  the 
Visionaries  or  his  "  History  of  Port-Royal."  Here  are  the 
two  volumes  ;  I  warn  you  that  if  you  lose  them  you  will 
be  lost  in  M.  d'Alembert's  opinion.  Here  is  also  Plutarch ; 
that  is  mine ;  but,  if  it  is  all  the  same  to  you,  I  would  rather 
it  were  not  lost  or  torn. 

I  saw  Mme.  de  M  .  .  .  at  mass  and  spoke  to  her.  Her 
face  and  figure  satisfy  the  most  fastidious  and  exacting  taste  ; 
but  her  tone,  her  manner,  ah  !  how  repulsive  they  are  !  Am 
I  wrong?  But  her  friend  does  not  resemble  her;  yes,  I 
believe  this,  and  I  even  desire  it ;  is  this  feeling  generous  ? 
tell  me. 

No,  you  shall  never  know  all  that  the  ambassador  wrote 


92  LETTERS  OF  [1774 

to  me ;  but  hear  this :  he  said  that,  judging  by  appearances, 
M.  de  G  .  .  .  had  obtained  that  which  M.  de  M  .  .  .  had 
desired  to  obtain ;  and  then  he  added :  "  I  am  not  afraid  lest 
his  piercing  eyes  shoukl  see  these  words  ;  I  consent  that  those 
of  M.  de  M  .  .  .  should  read  this  letter  as  he  reads  your 
soul,"  etc. ;  adding  a  hundred  lively  little  jests  very  gay  and 
clever ;  he  is  certainly  charming,  but  quite  undeserving  of 
being  loved.  —  Mon  ami,  you  advised  me  yesterday  not  to 
love  you ;  is  it  I  or  yourself  whom  you  wish  to  save  from  that 
misfortune  ?  —  tell  me.  I  liave  an  infallible  remedy  :  how 
sweet  it  will  be  to  me  if  I  can  think  that  I  do  anything  for 
you. 

Mon  ami,  this  soul  which  is  like  a  thermometer,  now  at 
freezing,  then  at  temperate,  and  a  moment  after  at  the  burn- 
ing heat  of  the  equator,  this  soul,  thus  carried  away  by  an 
irresistible  force,  finds  it  hard  to  curb  and  calm  itself; 
it  longs  for  you,  it  fears  you,  it  loves  you,  it  wanders 
in  a  wilderness,  but  always  it  belongs  to  you  and  to  its 
regrets. 

1774. 
Mon  ami,  yesterday,  coming  home  at  midnight,  I  found 
ycnir  letter.  I  did  not  expect  such  good  luck  ;  but  what 
grieves  me  is  the  number  of  days  that  must  pass  without  my 
seeing  you.  Ah  !  if  you  knew  what  the  days  are,  what  the 
life  is,  stripped  of  the  interest  and  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  ! 
Mon  ami,  amusements,  occupations,  activity  are  all  you  need, 
but  I,  my  happiness  is  you,  and  only  you ;  I  would  not  wish 
to  live  if  I  could  not  see  you,  could  not  love  you  at  every  in- 
stant of  my  life.  Send  me  news  of  yourself,  and  come  and 
dine  to-morrow  with  Comte  C  .  .  .  He  asked  me  to  change 
from  Sunday  to  Saturday;  I  said  yes;  but  come  there,  I 
entreat  you.  I  was  to  dine  to-day  at  the  Spanish  ambas- 
sador's, but  I  have  excused  myself ;  if  you  were  to  be  there 


1774]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  93 

I  would  not  have  done  so.     Good-bye.     I  am  expecting  the 
letter  you  promised  me.     I  am  much  hurried. 

1774. 
I  yield  to  the  need  of  my  heart,  mon  ami:  I  love  you ;  I 
feel  as  much  pleasure  and  anguish  as  if  it  were  the  first  and 
the  last  time  in  my  life  that  I  should  say  those  words  to  you. 
Ah  !  why  have  you  condemned  me  to  say  them  ?  Why  am 
I  reduced  to  do  so  ?  You  will  know  some  day  —  alas  !  you 
will  then  understand  me.  It  is  dreadful  to  me  to  be  no  longer 
free  to  suffer  for  you  and  through  you.  Is  that  loving  you 
enough  ?     Adieu,  man  ami. 

At  all  the  instants  of  my  life.     1774. 
Mon  ami,  I  suffer,  I  love  you,  and  I  await  you. 

Tuesday,  1774. 

Mon  ami,  you  make  me  prove  that  we  like  better  to  give 
than  to  pay  our  debts.  I  have  several  letters  to  answer,  and 
to  come  to  them  I  must  begin  by  talking  with  you.  Mon 
ami,  have  you  given  me,  since  last  night,  one  minute,  two 
minutes  ?  Have  you  said,  "  She  suffers,  she  loves  me,  and  I 
must  blame  myself  for  a  part  of  her  sorrows  "  ?  It  is  not  to 
distress  you  or  to  give  you  remorse  that  I  say  that,  but  to 
make  you  kind,  indulgent,  and  not  angry  when  a  few  cries 
of  pain  escape  me.  As  for  me,  I  have  thought  of  you,  and 
much,  but  my  time  has  been  occupied.  —  Good  God  !  was  there 
ever  such  pride,  such  disdain  of  others,  such  contempt,  such 
injustice,  in  a  word,  such  an  assemblage  and  assortment  of 
all  that  peoples  hell  and  lunatic  asjdums  ?  All  that  was 
last  night  in  my  apartment,  and  the  walls  and  ceilings  did 
not  crumble  down  ;  a  miracle  ! 

In  the  midst  of  the  sorry  writers,  smatterers,  fools,  and 
pedants,  among  whom  I  spent  my  day,  I  thought  of  you  alone 


94  LETTERS  OF  [1774 

and  of  your  follies ;  I  regi'etted  you ;  I  longed  for  you  with 
as  much  passion  as  if  you  were  the  most  amiable,  most 
reasonable  being  that  existed.  I  cannot  explain  to  myself 
the  charm  that  binds  me  to  you.  You  are  not  my  friend ; 
you  can  never  become  so :  I  have  no  sort  of  confidence  in 
you ;  you  have  caused  me  the  deepest,  sharpest  pain  that  can 
afflict  and  rend  an  honest  soul ;  you  deprive  me  at  this  mo- 
ment, and  perhaps  forever,  of  the  only  consolation  that 
heaven  granted  to  the  few  remaining  days  I  have  to  live,  — 
how  shall  I  say  it  ?  You  have  filled  all ;  the  past,  the  pre- 
sent, and  the  future  present  me  nothing  but  pain,  regrets, 
remorse.  Ah  !  mon  ami,  I  see,  I  judge  it  all,  yet  I  am  drawn 
to  you  by  an  attraction,  by  a  feeling  which  I  abhor,  but  which 
has  the  power  of  a  curse  and  a  fatality.  You  do  well  not  to 
consider  me  ;  I  have  no  right  to  require  anything  of  you ;  for 
my  most  ardent  wish  is  that  you  were  nothing  to  me.  What 
would  you  say  of  the  state  of  a  most  unhaj)py  being  who 
showed  herself  to  you  for  the  first  time  agitated,  convulsed 
by  feelings  so  diverse  and  contradictory  ?  You  would  pity 
her ;  your  heart  would  be  stirred ;  you  would  want  to  suc- 
cour, to  comfort  that  unfortimate  creature.  Mon  ami,  it  is 
I ;  this  sorrow,  it  is  you  who  have  caused  it ;  this  soul  of 
fire  and  pain  is  your  creation  (ah  !  I  still  think  you  godlike), 
and  you  ought  to  repent  of  your  work. 

When  I  took  my  pen  I  did  not  know  one  word  of  what  I 
should  say  to  yoil ;  I  meant  only  to  tell  you  to  come  and 
dine  to-morrow,  Wednesday,  at  Mme.  Geoffrin's.  I  meant  to 
show  you  that  you  alone  of  all  my  friends  oblige  me  to  wait 
for  what  I  earnestly  desire,  "  Le  Conn^table."  It  is  mine ;  I 
might  have  refused  to  give  it  to  you,  and  now  it  is  I  who 
persecute  you  to  return  it.  Ah  !  mon  Dieu  !  neither  cares,  nor 
interest,  nor  attentions,  nor  any  desire  to  please,  —  occasion 
ally  a  kindness  that  resembles  pity  ;  and  with  it  all,  or  ivith- 


1774]  MLLE.   DE  LESPINASSE.  &5 

out  it  all,  I  love  you  wildly.     Pity  me,  but  do  not  tell  me 
so.     Bring  back  my  letters ;  yes,  do  that. 

Three  o'clock,  1774. 

It  was  not  myself  who  answered  you.  If  you  love  me  it 
must  have  made  you  uneasy,  and  I  shall  be  grieved  to  have 
caused  you  a  pain  I  could  have  avoided.  I  was  in  a  state  of 
anguish,  like  the  agony  of  death,  preceded  by  a  fit  of  tears 
which  lasted  four  hours.  No,  never,  never  did  my  soul  feel 
such  despair.  I  have  a  sort  of  terror  which  bewilders  my 
reason.  I  await  Wednesday,  and  it  seems  to  me  that  death 
itself  is  not  sufficient  remedy  for  the  loss  I  fear ;  it  needs  no 
courage  to  die,  but  it  is  awful  to  live.  It  is  beyond  my 
strength  to  think  that,  perhaps,  the  one  1  love,  he  who  loved 
me,  will  hear  me  no  more,  will  never  come  again  to  succour 
me.  He  views  death  with  horror  because  the  thought  of  me 
is  added  to  it.  He  wrote  me  on  the  10th,  "  I  have  in  me 
that  which  will  make  you  forget  all  that  I  have  made  you 
suffer ; "  and  that  very  day  the  fatal  hemorrhage  struck  him 
down ! 

Ah  !  mon  Dieu  !  you  who  have  known  passion,  despair,  can 
you  conceive  my  soitow  ?  Pity  me  so  long  as  I  shall  live,  but 
never  regi-et  the  unhappy  being  who  has  existed  eight  days 
in  a  state  of  suffering  to  which  thought  cannot  attain.  Adieu. 
If  I  must  live,  if  my  sentence  is  not  pronounced,  I  may  still 
find  sweetness,  charm,  and  consolation  in  your  friendship ; 
will  you  preserve  it  for  me  ? 

1774. 

I  distrustful,  and  of  you !  Think  with  what  complete  sur- 
render I  have  given  myself  to  you ;  not  only  have  I  put  no 
distrust,  no  caution,  into  my  conduct,  but  I  should  not  even 
know  regret  or  remorse  if  it  were  my  happiness  alone  that  I 
had    compromised.     Oh !   mon  ami  !  I  know  not  if  I  now 


96  LETTERS  OF  [1774 

love  better,  but  he  who  made  me  unfaithful  and  guilty,  he  for 
whom  I  live  after  losing  the  object  and  interest  of  every  mo- 
ment of  m}^  life,  is  he  who  has  had  most  empire  over  my  soul, 
he  who  has  taken  from  me  the  liberty  to  live  solely  for  an- 
other and  to  die  when  neither  hope  nor  desire  remains  to  me  !  ^ 
No  doubt  I  have  been  held  to  life  by  the  same  spell  that  drew 
me  towards  you,  that  potent  charm  attached  to  your  pres- 
ence, which  intoxicates  my  soul  and  bewilders  it  to  such  ex- 
cess that  the  memory  of  my  sorrow  is  effaced.  Mon  ami, 
with  three  words  you  have  created  a  new  soul  within  me, 
you  have  filled  it  with  an  interest  so  keen,  a  sentiment  so 
tender,  so  profound,  that  I  lose  the  faculty  to  recall  the  past 
and  to  foresee  the  future. 

Yes,  mon  ami,  I  live  in  you ;  I  exist  because  I  love  you ; 
and  that  is  so  true  that  it  seems  to  me  impossible  not  to  die 
if  I  should  lose  the  hope  of  seeing  you.  The  happiness  of 
having  seen  you,  the  desire,  the  expectation  of  seeing  you 
again  aid  and  sustain  me  against  my  grief.  Alas  !  what  would 
become  of  me  if,  instead  of  hope,  I  had  only  the  sorrowful 
regret  of  not  seeing  you  ?  Mon  ami,  with  you  I  have  not 
been  able  to  die,  without  you  I  neither  could  —  nor  would  I 
—  live.  Ah '  if  you  knew  what  I  suffer,  what  dreadful 
laceration  my  heart  feels  when  I  am  left  to  myself,  when 
your  presence,  or  your  thought  no  longer  sustains  me  !  Ah  ! 
it  is  then  that  the  memory  of  M.  de  Mora  becomes  a  senti- 
ment so  active,  so  piercing,  that  my  life,  my  feelmgs  cause 
me  horror.  I  abhor  the  aberration,  the  passion  that  made 
me  guilty,  that  made  me  cast  trouble  and  fear  into  that 
sensitive  soul  that  was  all  my  own. 

Mon  ami,  do  you  conceive  to  what  point  I  love  you  ?     You 

1  The  Marquis  de  Mora  died  at  Bordeaux,  May  27,  1774,  on  his  way 
from  Madrid  to  I'aris,  drawn  there  by  his  passionate  desire  to  return  to 
Mile,  de  Lespinasse. — Fr.  Ed. 


1774]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  97 

divert  the  regrets,  the  remorse,  that  rend  my  heart :  alas  !  they 
would  suffice  to  deliver  me  from  a  life  I  hate ;  you  alone  and 
my  sorrow  remain  to  me  in  this  wide  world ;  I  have  no  more 
interest  in  it,  no  ties,  no  friends,  and  I  need  none :  to  love 
you,  to  see  you,  or  to  cease  to  exist  —  that  is  the  last  and 
only  prayer  of  my  soul.  Yours  does  not  respond  to  it,  I 
know ;  but  I  do  not  complain  of  that.  By  a  strange  caprice, 
which  I  feel  but  cannot  explain,  I  am  far  from  desiring  to 
find  in  you  that  which  I  have  lost :  it  would  be  too  much ; 
what  human  being  has  better  felt  than  I  all  the  value  of 
that  life  ?  Is  it  not  enough  to  have  blessed  and  cherished 
that  nature  once  ?  How  many  thousands  of  men  have 
crossed  this  earth  without  compare  to  him !  Oh  !  how  I 
have  been  loved !  A  soul  of  fire,  full  of  energy,  which  had 
judged  all  things,  estimated  all  things,  and  then,  turning 
away  revolted  by  all,  gave  itself  up  to  the  need  and  joy  of 
loving  —  mon  ami,  that  is  how  I  was  loved. 

Several  years  went  by,  filled  with  the  charm  and  the 
sorrows  inseparable  from  a  passion  as  strong  as  it  was  deep, 
and  then  you  came  to  pour  poison  into  my  heart,  to  ravage 
my  soul  with  trouble  and  remorse.  My  God !  what  have 
you  not  made  me  suffer !  You  tore  me  from  my  feeling, 
but  I  saw  you  were  not  mine.  Do  you  not  see  the  wliole 
horror  of  that  situation  ?  How  is  it  that  I  have  lived  through 
such  woe  ?  How  can  one  still  find  gentleness  to  say :  "  Mon 
ami,  I  love  you,  and  with  such  trath  and  tenderness  that  it 
is  not  possible  your  soul  be  cold  as  it  hears  me  "  ?     Adieu. 

Friday,  after  post  time. 
You  are  "  displeased  ; "  see  if  you  ought  to  be  ;  what  soul 
have  you  ever  inspired  with  a  stronger  or  more  tender  feel- 
ing ?     Mon  ami,  in  whatever  way  you  regard  and  judge  my 
soul,  I  defy  you  to  find  anythicg  in  it  to  displease  you.     Oh  ! 

7 


98  LETTERS   OF  [1774 

I  am  sure  of  it ;  never  have  you  been  so  loved.  But  do  not 
make  me  say  why  —  I  cannot  write  to  you  ivhere  you  are ;  I 
dare  not  acknowledge  to  myself  tlie  reason ;  it  is  a  thought, 
an  emotion,  on  which  I  do  not  wish  to  dwell ;  it  is  a  sort  of 
torture  which  horrifies  me,  which  humiliates  me,  and  one 
which  I  have  never  yet  known. 

You  ask  me  how  I  liked  the  habit  of  seeing  you  daily. 
Oh,  no !  it  was  not  a  habit ;  it  never  could  become  one. 
How  cold  such  colours  are,  how  monotonous !  they  cannot 
be  compared  with  the  violent  and  rayjid  emotions  which  the- 
name  and  presence  of  the  one  we  love  excite.  No,  no,  I  have 
not  been  happy  enough  to  give  myself  the  illusion  that  you 
would  come  and  see  me ;  thus  I  did  not  hear  the  opening 
and  closing  of  my  door.  But  without  interests,  without 
desires,  what  matters  it  what  people  see  or  hear  ?  Given 
over  to  my  regrets,  I  feel  but  one  need ;  I  implore  either 
you  or  death.  You  soothe  my  soul,  you  fill  it  with  so  tender 
a  sentiment  that  it  is  sweet  to  live  during  the  time  that  I 
see  you ;  but  there  is  nought  but  death  that  can  deliver  me 
from  misery  in  your  absence. 

Midnight,  1774. 

So  you  have  forgotten,  abandoned,  that  fury,  so  foolish 
and  so  wicked  both !  but  had  yon  left  her  in  hell  itself  she 
would  not  complain;  the  heat  and  activity  of  that  abode 
would  make  her  live.  Instead  of  that,  the  unhappy  creature 
spent  her  day  in  purgatory;  she  awaited  a  consoling  angel 
who  did  not  come.  He  was  no  doubt  making  the  happiness 
and  joy  of  some  celestial  being,  himself  intoxicated  with  the 
joys  of  heaven.  In  that  condition  what  could  recall  me  to 
him ;  and  if  in  truth  he  is  really  happy,  I  desire,  from  the 
bottom  of  my  soul,  that  nothing  may  remind  him  of  me ;  for 
I  am  sufficiently  unjust  to  detest  his  happiness  and  to  wish 
that  remorse  and  repentance  may  pursue  him  perpetually. 


1774]  MLLE.   DE  LESPlNASSE.  99 

I  wish  him  worse  still,  namely :  that  he  may  love  no  more, 
and  that  he  may  henceforth  inspire  indifference  only.  Those 
are  the  prayers,  that  is  the  wish  of  the  soul  that  has  loved 
him  best  and  has  the  greatest  need  of  extinction  forever. 

1774. 

I  am  alone  at  this  moment  and  I  wish  to  tell  you  at  once 
that  I  do  not  coimt  upon  you  to  go  to  the  Duchesse  d'An- 
ville's.  You  will  be  always  agreeable  to  me,  but  seldom 
useful,  and  I  wish  I  could  add,  little  necessary.  In  trying  to 
restore  my  confidence,  you  prove  to  me  how  justly  my  dis- 
trust was  founded ;  for  I  still  miss  three  letters,  one,  espe- 
cially, in  which  I  spoke  to  you  of  Gonsalve  [M.  de  Mora]. 
You  will  doubtless  find  those  three  letters  in  some  pocket  of 
your  portfolio ;  perhaps  they  are  with  that  fourth  volume 
that  I  ought  to  receive  to-day. 

I  notice  that  you  make  it  your  pleasure  to  pay  attentions 
to  Mme.  de  .  .  .  ;  you  give,  and  lend  her,  whatever  gives 
you  pleasure;  to  me,  it  is  the  opposite  extreme,  —  negligence, 
forgetfulness,  refusal.  It  is  three  months  since  you  promised 
me  a  book  which  belongs  to  you;  I  have  now  borrowed 
it  from  some  one  else.  No  doubt  it  is  best  that  this  dis- 
obliging maimer  should  fall  on  me ;  that  is  only  right,  and  I 
complain  solely  of  the  excess  of  it.  Good-night !  If  work 
costs  you  your  nights,  you  must  regret  veiy  much  the  use- 
less visits  that  fill  your  days.  Among  the  letters  you  have 
sent  back  to  me  one  is  not  mine ;  but  I  swear  that  I  will 
never  return  it  to  you. 

1774. 

Return  to  me  the  two  old  letters.  I  am  not  asking  you  for 
those  of  Cicero  or  Pliny.  I  desire  not  to  see  you,  never  to  see 
you  again.     Eegret  is  better  —  is  it  not  ?  —  than  remorse. 

At  the  moment  when  you  receive  this  I  will  wager  that 


100  LETl^ERS   OF  [1774 

you  have  already  received  a  note  in  which  you  were  told 
...  I  don't  know  what. 

Eh !  mon  Dieu !  believe  her,  give  her  peace,  and  if  it  is 
possible,  be  happy  yourself:  that  is  the  wish,  that  is  the 
prayer  of  the  unhappy  woman  who  has  always  before  her 
eyes  the  dreadful  inscription  on  the  portal  of  liell :  "  Give  up 
all  hope,  ye  who  enter  liere."  I  have  no  hope,  and  I  wish 
for  none.  I  ought  to  have  annihilated  myself  on  the  day  I 
was  left  solitary.  You  prevented  it,  and  you  cannot  now 
console  me. 

May  11,  1774. 

You  do  not  know  me  yet ;   it  is   almost   impossible   to 

wound  my  self-love ;  and  the  heart  is  so  indulgent !     In  fact, 

the  party  of  last  night  was  like  those  insipid  novels  which 

make  the  author  and  the  readers  yawn  together.     However, 

one  must  say  with  the  King  of  Prussia,  on  a  rather  more 

memorable  occasion,  "  We  will  do  better  next  time."     That 

which  makes  an  epoch  remains  in  the  memory,  and  you  will 

never  forget  in  future   that  the  day  on  which  Louis  XV. 

died  you    spent  the  evening  at  a  party  in  a  sound  sleep. 

Believe  me,  there  are  recollections  more  painful  than  that. 

Good-bye. 

Eleven  o'clock  at  night.     1774. 

I  will  wager  that  you  are  not  as  sleepy  to-day  as  you  were 
yesterday  at  the  same  hour ;  and  the  reason  is  very  simple  ; 
you  are  being  amused,  interested,  and  you  have  the  desire  to 
please.  Mon  ami,  you  were  not  made  for  privacy ;  you  need 
expansion;  movement  and  the  hurly-burly  of  society  is 
necessary  to  you ;  this  is  not  a  need  of  your  vanity ;  it  is 
that  of  your  activity.  Confidence,  tenderness,  forgetfulness 
of  self  and  of  vanity,  all  those  blessings  felt  and  appreciated 
by  a  tender  and  passionate  soul,  clog  and  extinguish  yours. 
Yes,  I  repeat  it :  you  have  no  need  of  being  loved.     What  a 


1774]  MLLE.    DE   LESPINASSE.  101 

strange  mistake  was  mine  '  and  /  dare  to  blame  certain  per- 
sons for  lack  of  discernment !  /  dare  to  tell  them  that  they 
observe  nothing  and  do  not  know  men.  All !  how  misled  I 
was ;  mistaken  to  excess  !  How  is  it  that  my  intelligence 
did  not  check  my  soul  ?  How  can  it  be  that,  judging  you 
incessantly,  I  was,  nevertheless,  always  carried  away  ?  You 
do  not  know  the  half  of  your  ascendency  over  me ;  you 
do  not  know  what  you  have  to  conquer  each  time  that 
I  see  you  ;  you  have  never  suspected  the  sacrifices  that  I 
make  to  yoii ;  you  do  not  know  the  degree  to  which  I 
renounce  my  own  self  in  order  to  be  yours.  I  say  to 
you  with  Phfedre,  "  Often  was  I  forced  to  deprive  myself 
of  tears." 

Yes,  mo7i  ami,  I  deprive  myself,  with  you,  of  all  that  is 
most  dear  to  me.  I  never  speak  to  you  now  of  my  regrets, 
nor  of  my  memories ;  and,  what  is  more  cruel  still,  I  let  you 
see  but  a  part  of  the  feelings  with  which  you  fill  my  heart. 
I  restrain  the  passion  you  excite  in  my  soid. ;  I  say  to  myself 
incessantly :  "  He  will  not  respond  to  it,  he  will  not  under- 
stand me,  and  I  should  die  of  pain."  Can  you  conceive,  mon 
ami,  the  species  of  torture  to  which  I  am  condemned  ?  I 
have  remorse  for  what  I  give  you,  and  regrets  for  what  I  am 
forced  to  keep  back.  I  give  myself  up  to  you,  but  I  do  not 
give  myself  up  to  my  own  feeling  for  you ;  yielding  to  you, 
I  nevertheless  battle  within  myself.  Ah !  can  you  under- 
stand me  ?  can  you  know  through  thought  what  I  feel,  and 
what  you  have  made  me  suffer  ?  Yes,  you  will  have  a 
return  towards  me,  because  you  have  the  sensibility  that 
feels  an  interest  in  the  mdiappy  and  pities  them. 

But  I  know  not  why  I  thus  unbosom  myself  for  an  in- 
stant; I  know  that  I  shall  find  no  comfort  in  your  heart. 
Mon  ami,  it  is  empty  of  tenderness  and  feeling.  You  have 
but  one  means  of  lifting  me  from  my  troubles :  it  is  that  of 

L!Bi<AHY 
UNaTRSlTi  ^r  CALIFORNIA 

RIVERSIDE 


102  LETTERS   OF  [1774 

intoxicating  me,  and  that  remedy  has  been  the  greatest  of 
my  misfortunes. 

Good-night,  mon  ami  ;  send  me  news  of  yourself ;  my  foot- 
man has  orders  to  return  for  your  answer.  Tell  me  what 
you  expect  to  do  to-morrow ;  tell  me  if  I  shall  see  you :  I 
would  rather  it  were  not  in  the  morning,  because  I  must 
then  receive  a  long  and  wearisome  visit ;  but  I  want  to  see 
you  nevertheless.  Eemember  that  on  Saturday  and  Sunday 
I  shall  be  deprived  of  that  happiness. 

Adieu  again ;  I  am  much  fatigued.  I  have  seen,  I  think, 
forty  persons  to-day,  and  I  desired  to  see  but  one  —  one 
whose  thoughts  very  certainly  have  not  been  turned  even 
once  to  me.  Mon  ami,  if  you  were  happy  I  would  approve 
of  your  manner  of  living;  but  this  vagueness,  this  void, 
this  agitation,  this  perpetual  movement,  this  habit  of  being 
neither  occupied  by  work  nor  inspired  by  feeling,  this  con- 
tinued expenditure  which  impoverishes,  with  no  return  in 
pleasure,  or  reputation,  or  interest,  or  fame  !  —  ah  !  mon  ami, 
you  do  not  deserve  that  Nature  should  have  treated  you  so 
well ;  she  has  been  prodigal  towards  you,  and  you  are  but  a 
spendthrift.  But  I,  I  ruin  myself  for  you,  and  it  oppresses 
without  enriching  you.  Yes,  I  weary  you;  you  feel  a  dis- 
gust for  my  letters,  and  in  that  I  admire  the  correctness  and 
delicacy  of  your  taste ;  but  while  I  esteem  such  good  taste  I 
grieve  that  you  have  almost  no  indulgence  or  kindliness. 

Four  hours  after  midday,  1774. 
Certainly,  mon  ami,  I  do  not  keep  to  the  lex  talionis  at 
this  moment,  for  it  is  not  with  me  that  you  are  occupied. 
Eh  !  mon  Dieu  !  how  could  you  think  of  me  in  the  midst  of 
so  many  and  such  charming  objects  of  distraction,  when  I 
cannot  keep  your  thoughts  fixed  when  we  are  tete  a  tete  ? 
Do  you  know  why  1  prefer  to  see  you  in  the  evening  ?     Be- 


1774]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  103 

cause  those  hours  put  a  stop  to  your  activity.  There  is  no 
way  then  of  going  to  see  Madame  Such-a-one,  or  Gluck,  etc., 
or  of  doing  a  hundred  useless  things,  in  which  you  seem  to 
take  an  interest  solely  to  leave  me  earlier.  Do  not  think 
that  these  are  reproaches ;  they  are  only  remarks  which  I 
cannot,  with  the  degree  of  interest  that  I  feel,  prevent  myself 
from  making.  But  I  am  so  far  from  wishing  to  exact  any- 
thing that  I  tell  myself,  a  hundred  times  a  day,  it  is  myself 
over  whom  I  ought  to  hold  empire ;  I  ought  to  reduce  my 
feelings  to  the  point  where,  not  having  sufficient  force  to 
wring  the  soul,  we  claim  nothing  and  are  grateful  for  all ;  in 
other  words,  if  passion  be  in  my  soul  I  ought  to  conquer 
it  rather  than  seek  to  make  you  share  it.  And  do  you  know, 
mon  ami,  what  it  is  that  may  enable  me  to  find  the  strength 
to  do  so  ?  It  is  the  inward  conviction  which  I  have  that 
it  is  not  in  you  to  make,  the  happiness  of  an  active  and  pas- 
sionate soul.  I  shall  not  say  to  you  what  it  would  be  so 
natural  to  think,  namely  :  that  I  am  not  made  to  inspire 
a  deep  sentiment ;  that  I  ought  not  to  pretend  to  please,  to 
fix  a  heart.  All  that  is  true,  no  doubt ;  but  it  is  not  that 
which  makes  me  tell  you  that  it  is  not  in  you  to  make  the 
happiness  of  a  strong  and  feeling  soul.  I  will  give  to  that 
soul  the  face  of  Mme.  de  Forcalquier,  the  nobleness  of  Mme. 
de  Brionne,  the  graces  of  Aglae,  and  the  wit  of  Mme.  de  .  .  . 
adorned,  or  rather,  grafted  with  that  of  Mme.  de  Boufflers, 
and  when  I  have  composed  that  perfect  being  I  say  again 
that  it  is  not  in  you  to  make  her  happiness.  Why  so  ? 
Ah !  why  ?  —  because,  with  you,  loving  is  a  mere  incident 
of  your  age,  and  is  not  a  part  of  your  soul,  though  it  agitates 
it  occasionally  ;  your  soul  is,  above  all  things,  lofty,  noble, 
grand,  active,  but  it  is  neither  tender  nor  impassioned. 

Ah !  believe  me,  I  am  in  despair  at  seeing  to  such  depths ; 
I  have  such  need  of  loving,  such  pleasure  in  loving  that 


104  LETTERS  OF  [1774 

which  I  find  worthy  of  love.  It  is  so  impossible  for  me  to 
love  moderately  that  the  greatest  misfortune  that  could  hap- 
pen to  me  would  be  to  discover  in  you  that  which  alone 
could  arrest,  and  perhaps  extinguish,  my  feeling ;  .for,  I  will 
own  it  honestly,  I  do  not  find  it  in  me  to  love  alone.  Witli 
the  opposite  conviction  I  have  the  strength  of  the  martyrs ; 
I  fear  no  sort  of  sorrow.  While  suffering,  and  suffering 
much,  I  can  still  cherish  life,  still  adore  and  bless  him  who 
makes  me  suffer ;  but  only  on  condition  of  being  loved  — 
loved  from  attraction ;  not  from  gratitude,  from  delicacy, 
from  virtue,  —  all  that  is  detestable ;  it  can  only  wither  and 
cast  down  a  feelmg  soul.  Ah  !  let  us  never  make  of  the 
greatest  blessing  that  Nature  has  bestowed  upon  man  a  thing 
of  pity. 

Mon  ami,  there  are  moments  when  I  feel  myself  your 
equal.  I  have  strength,  elevation,  and  a  sovereign  contempt 
for  all  that  is  vile  and  unworthy ;  and  I  have  also  a  con- 
tempt for  death  so  fixed  in  my  soul  that,  under  whatever 
aspect  it  presents  itself,  it  cannot  frighten  me  for  an  instant ; 
in  fact,  it  is  almost  always  an  active  want  within  me. 

From  this  knowledge  that  I  have  of  myself  and  of  you,  I 
say  to  you  again :  Let  us  love  each  other,  or  let  us  part 
forever ;  let  us  put  truth  and  generosity  into  our  conduct, 
and  esteem  ourselves  enough  to  believe  that  all  is  possible 
to  us  except  deceiving  each  other  and  living  in  that  state  of 
trouble  and  fear  which  comes,  necessarily,  from  the  uncer- 
tainty of  being  loved.  In  that  state,  mon  ami,  one  has 
confidence  neither  in  one's  self  nor  in  the  one  we  love ;  we 
enjoy  nothing.  For  example :  at  this  moment  I  desire  pas- 
sionately that  you  may  return  to-night  from  Auteuil  [Mme. 
de  Bouffler's  country-seat],  and  then,  a  moment  later,  it 
seems  to  me  tliat  I  wish  you  to  remain  there.  Can  you 
conceive  the  sviffering  caused  by  this  inward  combat  between 


1774]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  105 

the  desire  of  the  soul  aud  a  will  which  comes  only  from  re- 
flection ?  Co7idusio:i :  I  love  you  to  frenzy,  aud  something 
tells  me  it  is  not  thus  that  you  ought  to  be  loved.  That  some- 
thing  makes  such  noise  around  my  soul  that  I  am  ready  to 
hush  all  else,  and  give  myself  up  comj)letely  to  that  dreadful 
truth. 

Mori  ami,  I  send  you  back  your  works  that  you  may  be 
yourself  their  censor :  put  the  last  touches  to  them,  and  be 
assured  that  no  one  in  the  world  attaches  as  much  value  as  I 
to  all  that  you  do,  and  all  that  you  are  capable  of  doing. 
Without  being  vain,  it  seems  to  me  one  could  put  one's 
vanity,  pride,  vutue,  pleasure,  in  short,  one's  whole  existence, 
into  loving  you ;  but  that  is  not  what  I  was  saying  just  now. 
No,  but  then  I  was  saying  what  I  thought,  what  I  knew,  and 
now  I  am  carried  away  into  telling  you  what  I  feel.  My  soul 
is  so  strong  to  love,  and  my  mind  is  so  small,  so  weak,  so 
limited,  that  I  ought  to  forbid  myself  all  expressions  aud 
actions  that  do  not  come  from  my  heart.  It  is  my  heart  that 
speaks  when  I  say  to  you :  "  I  await  you,  I  love  you,  I  would 
faiu  be  wholly  yours,  and  die." 

Adieu ;  here  come  \dsitors.  I  am  so  occupied  with  you,  I 
am  so  deeply  filled  with  my  regrets,  that  society  is  nothing 
more  to  me  than  importunity  and  constraint.  There  are 
]jut  two  ways  of  living  that  now  seem  good  to  me,  —  to  see 
you,  or  to  be  alone  ;  but  alone,  without  books,  without  lights, 
without  noise.  I  am  far  from  complaining  of  my  sleepless- 
ness, it  is  the  good  time  of  my  twenty-four  hours.  Observe,  I 
beg  of  you,  how  much  it  costs  me  to  quit  you ;  whereas  you 
have  no  impulse  towards  me  —  not  a  thought !  Are  you 
the  happier  for  that  ?     Yes. 

Friday,  1774. 

How  kind  of  you  to  send  me  an  account  of  what  you  do,  of 
what  you  are  thinking,  of  what  occupies  you !     How  I  love 


106  LETTERS  OF  [1774 

the  ardour,  the  activity  of  your  soul  aud  of  your  mind  !  Mon 
ami,  you  have  so  many  ways  of  attaining  glory  that  you 
ought  not  to  desire  that  of  war.  Give  yourself  up  to  your 
talent,  your  genius  ;  write,  and  by  enlightening  and  interest- 
ing men  you  will  acquire  the  most  flattering  of  all  fame  to  a 
sensitive  and  virtuous  soul ;  by  thus  doiiuj  good  you  will  enjoy 
the  best-deserved  celebrity,  —  in  trutli,  the  only  desirable 
celebrity  in  this  age,  where  the  choice  lies  between  that  and 
baseness  and  frivolit}^  Ah !  how  dreadful  it  would  be  to 
me  to  live  again  the  life  I  led  for  ten  years.  I  saw  vice  in 
action  so  closely,  was  so  often  the  victim  of  the  base  and 
petty  passions  of  persons  of  society,  that  I  still  retain  an  in- 
vincible disgust  and  fear,  which  make  me  prefer  complete 
solitude  to  an  odious  existence. 

I  am  dying  of  a  desire  to  see  your  play ;  you  must  have 
created  the  subject  [Anne  Boleyn],  for  in  itself  it  does  not  seem 
to  me  to  admit  of  interest  and  action  in  more  than  a  few 
scenes.  You  will  have  all  the  more  merit  in  seizing  and 
interesting  attention  during  five  acts ;  Eacine  had  that  magic 
art  in  "  Bf^rdnice."  Your  subject  is  grander  and  nobler,  and 
well  on  the  tone  of  your  soul.  You  will  not  need  to  rise  to 
heights,  for  you  are  always,  without  effort,  on  the  level  of 
what  seems  exalted  to  common  and  vidgar  souls. 
•  Yes,  7non  ami,  my  days  are  as  usual ;  but  I  shall  soon  be 
alone :  all  my  friends  are  leaving  Paris,  and  for  the  first  time 
in  my  life  their  departure  does  not  cost  me  a  regret ;  and,  if 
it  did  not  seem  too  ungi'ateful,  I  should  tell  you  that  I  could 
see  M.  dAlembert  depart  with  a  sort  of  pleasure.  His  pres- 
ence weighs  on  my  soul ;  it  makes  me  dissatisfied  with  my- 
self :  I  feel  myself  unworthy  of  his  affection  and  his  virtues. 
Judge,  therefore,  of  my  condition  of  mind,  when  that  which 
ought  to  be  a  consolation  adds  to  my  unhappiness  —  but  I  do 
not  want  to  be  consoled  ;  my  regrets,  my  memories  are  dearer 


1774]  MLLE.    DE   LESPINASSE.  107 

to  me  than  all  the  attentions  and  the  support  of  friendship. 
Mon  ami,  my  soul  must  either  be  lifted  wholly  out  of  its 
sorrow  (and  none  but  you  have  the  power  to  do  this)  or  it 
must  make  that  sorrow  its  sole  nourishment.  If  you  knew 
how  empty  and  cold  books  seem  to  me  ;  how  useless  I  feel  it 
to  talk  and  answer  !  My  first  impulse  is  to  say  to  myself  : 
AVhy  should  I  ?  what  is  the  good  of  it  ?  and  I  have  not  yet 
found  an  answer  to  that  question  ;  which  results  sometimes 
in  my  being  two  hours  without  saying  a  word,  and  for  a  month 
past  I  have  not  touched  a  pen  except  to  write  to  you.  I 
know  well  that  such  a  manner  rebuffs  friends :  but  I  consent 
to  that ;  my  soul  is  inured  to  hardships,  it  fears  no  little  woes. 
Ah !  how  sorrow  concentrates  us !  how  little  we  need  when 
we  have  lost  all!  A\Tiat  blessings  I  owe  you,  mon  ami; 
what  mercies  I  ought  to  return  to  you !  You  have  restored 
life  to  my  soul ;  you  have  made  me  feel  an  interest  in  await- 
ing the  mon'ow ;  you  promise  me  news  of  yom"self  :  that 
hope  fixes  my  tlioughts.  You  promise  me  still  more  ;  I  am  to 
see  you ;  but  I  shall  say  to  you  like  Andromaque,  "  To  less 
favours  than  that  the  unhappy  lay  claim." 

Adieu ;  I  abuse  both  your  time  and  your  kindness ;  but  it 
is  sweet,  it  is  natural  to  forget  all  with  those  we  love.  My 
wound  is  so  sharp,  my  soul  is  so  sick,  my  body  so  suffering 
that,  were  you  susceptible  of  pity  only,  I  am  sure  you  wouW  be 
beside  me,  seeking  to  pour  into  my  heart  the  balm  of  tender- 
ness and  consolation. 

Thursday,  after  post  time. 

Well !  I  have  had  no  letter,  and  that  surprises  me  less 
than  it  grieves  me. 

You  have  seen  the  chevalier  and  he  will  have  given  you 
news  of  me.  I  was  not  well  the  day  he  came.  I  am  better 
now,  but  yesterday  I  received  a  violent  shock.  I  had  a  con- 
versation, I  heard  the  details,  I  saw  his  hand-writing  once 


108  LEITERS   OF  [177-1 

more,  and  I  read  words  which  I  ought  not  to  survive. 
Ah  !  my  blood,  my  life  would  be  a  poor  i»rice  to  pay  for 
such  feelings  as  his;  see,  therefore,  how  1  must  judge  of 
yours. 

The  Abbd  Morellet  told  me  a  few  days  ago,  in  the  inno- 
ceuce  of  his  heart,  that  you  were  in  love  with  the  young  Com- 
tesse  de  Boufllers ;  that  you  were  really  mucli  occupied  with 
her ;  that  you  had  the  strongest  desire  to  please  her,  etc.,  etc. 
If  it  is  not  all  true,  it  is  so  probable  that  it  seems  to  me  I  ought 
to  complain  only  that  you  did  not  take  me  into  your  confi- 
dence. To  acquit  you  towards  me  I  ask  of  you  only  one 
thing,  and  that  is,  U)  tell  me  the  truth.  Believe  that  there 
is  no  truth,  none,  tliat  I  cannot  bear.  I  may  seem  to  you 
feeble,  enough  so  to  make  }ou  think  you  ought  to  spare  me, 
but  it  is  not  so.  On  the  contraiy,  never  did  I  feel  more 
strength.  I  have  the  strength  of  suffering,  and  I  can  fear 
nothing  more  in  this  world,  not  even  the  harm  }(ju  think 
yourself  obliged  to  do  me.     Adieu. 

July  G,  1774. 

How  little  I  see  of  you,  how  badly  I  saw  you  to-day,  and 
how  painful  it  is  to  me  not  to  know  where  you  are  at  this 
moment !  I  hope  at  Kis,  and  that  you  will  return  by  to- 
morrow evening.  They  say  the  Comte  de  Broglie  is  expected 
here  to-morrow  morning.  It  is  singular  that  I  should  be  led 
to  concern  myself  about  his  return,  and  to  deske  it  may  be 
earlier  than  his  friends  themselves  desire.  3Ion  Dieu  !  how 
a  sentiment,  a  feeling  changes  and  upsets  all !  That  "  I  "  of 
which  r^nelon  speaks  is  a  myth.  I  feel  in  a  positive  manner 
that  I  am  not  /,  I  am  you  ;  and  in  order  to  be  you,  I  have  no 
sacrifice  to  make.  Your  interests,  your  affections,  your  happi- 
ness, your  pleasures,  —  in  them,  mon  ami,  is  the  /  that  is  dear 
to  me,  that  is  within  me ;  all  else  is  external  and  foreign  to 
me ;   you  alone  in  the  universe   can  hold   and   occupy  my 


1774]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  109 

being.     My  thought,  my  soul  can  henceforth  be  filled  by  you 
alone,  and  by  my  harrowing  regrets. 

No,  it  is  not  when  I  compare  you  with  myself  that  1  fear, 
that  I  grieve  lest  I  be  not  loved.  Alas !  it  is  when  1  think 
of  what  I  was,  and  of  him  by  whom  I  was  —  but  to  that  un- 
speakable happiness  I  had  no  claim,  and  you  see  now  that  I 
did  not  deserve  it.  Oh  !  how  my  soul  suffers,  how  painful 
these  memories  are  !  Mon  ami,  what  will  become  of  me  when 
1  see  you  no  more,  when  I  await  you  no  more  ?  Do  you  be- 
lieve that  I  could  live  ?  the  thought  kills  me. 

But  tell  me  why  I  need  no  courage  to  die,  and  yet  have  not 
the  strength  to  say  to  myself  that  a  day  will  come,  a  moment, 
when  you  will  speak  to  me  a  word  that  wUl  make  me  shud- 
der. Man  ami,  never  speak  it ;  it  brings  evil ;  that  dreadful 
word  will  l»e  my  dttom ;  if  I  hear  it,  I  die. 

How  can  you  praise  me  for  loving  you?  Ah!  the  merit, 
the  virtue  would  have  been  in  resisting  the  inclinaticjn,  the 
attraction  that  drew  me  to  you.  But  how  could  I  fear,  how 
foresee  when  guarded  by  a  sentiment,  by  a  grief,  and  by  the 
inestimable  blessing  of  being  loved  ]\y  a  perfect  being  ?  ^fon 
ami,  it  was  this  that  suiTounded  my  soul,  this  that  defended 
it  when  you  ])rouglit  into  it  the  turmoil  of  remorse  and  tlie 
heat  of  passion  ;  and  you  praise  me  for  loving  j'ou  !  Ah  !  it 
was  a  crime ;  and  the  excess  of  it  does  not  justify  me.  But 
I  shall  horrify  you;  I  am  like  Pyrrhus,  and  I  "yield  to  the 
crime  as  a  criminal." 

Yes,  to  love  you,  or  cease  to  live  —  1  know  but  that  one 
virtue  and  law  of  nature ;  and  the  feeling  is  so  true,  so  in- 
voluntary, and  so  strong,  that,  in  truth,  you  owe  me  nothing. 
Ah !  how  far  I  am  from  exacting,  from  claiming !  Mon 
ami,  be  happy ;  find  pleasure  in  bemg  loved,  and  I  acquit 
you.  —  I  am  beside  myself,  I  cannot  speak  to  you  of  what  I 
feel ;  I  want  to  tell  you  that  I  have  seen  the  chevalier.     He 


110  LETTERS   OF  [1774 

asked  news  of  you ;  he  asked  if  I  were  satisfied  with  you ; 
how  kind  of  him  !  he  wants  all  my  friends  to  love  me  as  well 
as  he  does ;  could  you  do  that  ?  He  came  yesterday  and  re- 
turned this  evening. 

So  we  sliall  go  to  Auteuil  Thursday ;  be  punctual  to  the 
rendezvous  at  my  house  from  midday  to  half-past  twelve. 
Come,  mon  ami,  come.  Be  kmd,  be  generous,  and  give  me 
all  the  moments  tliat  are  not  employed  in  your  pleasures 
and  your  affairs;  I  wish,  I  ought,  to  come  after  those. 

1774. 

I  have  four  letters  to  answer;  I  have  tried  to  write,  but  it 
is  impossible.  My  mind  is  occupied  with  you.  I  do  not 
know  if  I  love  you,  but  I  feel,  only  too  mucli,  that  you 
trouble,  you  agitate  my  soul  in  a  painful  and  sorrowful  way 
when  I  do  not  see  you,  or  am  not  buoyed  up  by  the  pleasure 
and  activity  of  expecting  you.  Mon  ami,  in  the  days  when 
people  believed  in  witchcraft  I  should  liave  explained  all 
that  you  have  made  me  experience  bj'  saying  that  you  had 
the  power  to  throw  a  spell  upon  me  which  lifts  me  out  of 
myself.  But  if  that  were  so,  if  you  had  that  power,  how 
cruel  I  should  think  you  for  not  prolonging  the  illusion 
which  makes  me  fancy,  at  least  for  a  few  moments,  that 
life  could  be  a  blessing.  Yes,  a  blessing !  I  owe  it  to 
you  that  I  have  tasted  that  pleasure  which  intoxicates 
the  soul  to  the  point  of  taking  all  feelings  of  pain  and 
sorrow  from  it. 

But  ought  I  to  render  thanks  to  you  for  that  ?  the  charm 
ceases  the  moment  that  you  leave  me ;  I  find  myself  again 
overwhelmed  by  regret  and  remorse;  the  loss  that  I  have 
met  with  rends  me.  All  that  I  have  read  is  feeble  and  cold 
in  comparison  with  the  love  of  M.  de  Mora;  it  filled  his 
whole   life;   you   can   judge,  therefore,  how  it  filled   mine. 


1774]  MLLE.   DE    LESPINASSE.  Ill 

Eegret  for  such  a  love  would  sufiBce  to  make  the  sorrow  and 
the  despair  of  a  tender  soul.  Ah  !  but  I  suffer  more  cruelly 
still  from  the  remorse  that  weighs  upon  my  soul ;  I  see 
myself  guilty,  I  feel  myself  unworthy  of  the  happiness  I 
once  enjoyed :  I  failed  a  man,  the  most  virtuous,  the  most 
tender  of  men ;  in  a  word,  I  failed  my  own  self,  I  lost  my 
own  esteem  ;  judge,  therefore,  if  I  ought  to  claim  yom-s  ;  and 
if  you  do  not  esteem  me  is  there  any  means  of  blinding  me 
to  the  point  of  believing  that  you  can  love  me  ? 

After  this  knowledge  of  myself  and  the  reflections  it 
brings  with  it,  do  you  think  there  can  ever  be  a  creature 
more  unhappy !  Ah !  man  ami,  that  mobility  of  soul  for 
which  you  blame  me,  and  which  I  admit,  serves  me  only 
when  I  see  you.  It  is  that  which  has  brought  my  life  to  a 
single  point :  I  live  in  you,  and  by  you ;  but,  besides  that, 
do  you  know  what  that  mobility  does  for  me  ?  It  makes  me 
experience  in  one  hour  all  the  classes  of  torture  which  can 
rend  and  cast  down  the  soul.  Yes,  that  is  true :  I  feel 
sometimes  the  torpor,  the  despondency  of  death,  and  at  the 
same  moment  the  violent  convidsions  of  despair.  This  mo- 
bility is  a  secret  of  nature  which  makes  one  live  with  gi-eater 
force  in  a  single  day  than  the  majority  of  men  would  feel  in 
a  lifetime  of  a  himdred  years.  It  is  true  that  this  same 
mobility,  which  is  only  one  curse  the  more  to  sorrow,  is 
sometimes  the  source  of  much  pleasure  to  a  calm  disposition ; 
it  is  even,  perhaps,  a  means  of  being  agreeable,  because  it  is 
one  way  of  making  vanity  enjoy  itself  and  of  flattering  self- 
love.  I  have  felt  a  hundred  times  that  I  pleased  by  the 
impression  I  received  of  the  charms  and  wit  of  the  persons 
with  whom  I  was;  and,  in  general,  I  am  loved  because 
others  believe  and  see  that  they  are  making  an  effect  on  me; 
and  not  because  of  the  effect  I  make  on  them.  That  proves 
both  the  insufficiency  of  my  mind  and  the  activity  of  my 


112  LETTERS   OF  [1774 

soul,  and  in  tliese  observations  there  is  neither  vanity  nor 
modesty  —  but  Inith. 

Man  ami,  I  wcjuld  like  Ui  tell  you  the  secret  of  my  heart 
as  to  the  slight  impression  you  say  ycni  made  upon  me  with 
the  idea  of  a  separation  for  four  montlis.  Here  is  what  I 
promised  myself :  to  }  ield  wh(»lly  to  my  grief  and  to  the 
invincible  distaste  that  1  feel  for  life.  1  believed  that  when 
my  soul  floated  no  longer  between  the  liope  and  the  pleasure 
of  seeing  you,  of  having  seen  you,  it  would  iiave  more  strength 
llian  it  ncciU'd  to  deliver  nie  fmni  a  life  that  can  offer  me 
henceforth  nothing  but  regrets  and  renmrse.  That,  I  swear 
to  you,  is  the  thought  that  has  filled  my  mind  for  the  last 
two  months;  and  this  dee]>  and  active  need  to  be  de- 
livered fioiii  Miy  ticuhlt's  has  sustained  me  and  protects 
me  still  against  the  grief  that  your  absence  would  make 
me  feel. 

Do  not  conclude  from  this  that  1  l<tve  you  with  much 
passion:  no,  moii  ami;  it  i)roves  only  that  I  cling  ardently 
to  my  pleasure,  and  that  this  gives  me  the  strength  to  suffer. 
I  have  already  told  you  that  two  sayings  are  graven  on  my 
heart,  and  they  pronounce  my  sentence :  to  love  yon,  to  see 
you,  or  to  cease  to  exist.  After  that,  sa}-  all  the  harm  you 
will  of  my  sensibility;  never  have  I  sought  to  combat  your 
ill  opinion  of  me ;  I  have  not  thought  you  se\ere  or  unjust. 
You  alone  in  the  world  have  the  right  to  disesteem  me  and 
to  doubt  the  force  and  truth  of  the  passion  that  inspired  me 
during  five  vears  for  him  who  loved  me. 

Four  o'clock,  1774. 

I  left  you  last  night  because  I  thought  I  wearied  you 
with  talking  so  long  of  myself ;  but  listen  to  me  now,  be- 
cause it  is  of  you  that  I  wish  to  speak ;  but  firet  and  above 
all,  believe,  I  entreat   you,   that  I  am   not  seeking   to  re- 


1774]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  113 

proach  you ;  I  Jo  not  think  I  have  the  right  to  do  so,  and 
I  should  be  grieved  to  displease  you.  The  interest  that  I 
bear  you  makes  me  suffer  from  a  thousand  things  that  are  of 
no  account  to  you ;  one  must  love,  to  be  aware  of  the  harm 
one  does  to  those  who  love  us  ;  the  mind  alone  does  not 
give  the  delicacy  with  which  one  ought  to  treat  a  sick  and 
unhappy  soul.  But  exordiums  are  wearisome ;  let  us  come 
to  the  fact. 

Mon  ami,  you  wish  to  keep  the  object  of  your  journey  a 
secret  from  me  ;  if  it  is  a  good  object  why  do  you  fear  to  tell 
it  to  me  ?  And  if  this  journey  will  shock  my  heart,  why 
make  it  ?  If  you  do  hot  owe  your  love  to  me,  you  owe 
it  to  yourself  to  be  honouralde  and  not  deceive  me.  Never 
d<»  you  give  me  an  unreserved  confidence;  wliat  ycm  say  to 
me  seems  to  escape  you,  and  as  ii  you  hardly  consented  to 
let  it  do  so.  You  started  }-esterday,  and  you  diil  not  tell  me 
where  you  were  going;  I  do  not  now  know  where  you  are  ; 
I  am  completely  ign(»rant  of  }ou,  and  of  your  actions.^  Moii 
ami,  is  that  the  behaviour  of  even  the  commonest  friend- 
ship ?  And  do  you  believe  that  1  can  think  without  pain, 
that  (jf  your  own  free  will  you  will  be  twelve  da}S  without 
hearing  of  me  ?  Do  you  suppose  tliat  I  was  not  distressed 
when,  knowing  you  were  about  to  leave  me,  you  would  not 
give  me  your  last  evening  in  Paris?  If  you  loved  me  you 
would  have  seen  the  hurt  you  gave  me  when  you  told  me, 
Saturday  evening,  that  the  next  day  you  should  spend  with 
Mme.  d'Archambal.  I  did  nut  find  a  word  to  say  in  reply, 
but  I  suffered. 

1  M.  (le  fiuiljert  liad  gone  to  the  country-seat  of  the  father  of  tlie  yonnp 
laily  he  tliouglit  of  marrying.  The  name  of  tlie  phice  was  Courcelles, 
near  Gien,  and  the  name  of  the  lady,  who  soon  after  became  tlie  Cora- 
tesse  de  Guibert,  was  Alexandrine-Lonise  Boutinon  des  Hays  de  Cour- 
celles. Her  portrait  by  Greuze  is  celebrated,  and  has  been  in  various 
Exhibitions.  —  Fr.   Ei>. 

8 


114  LETTERS   OF  [1774 

Eleven  o'clock  at  night,  1774. 

I  have  no  news  of  yoii ;  1  IiojkmI  fur  none,  and  yet  I 
awaited  some.  Ah  '  inoii  Dim  !  how  can  you  say  that  pain  is 
uo  longer  in  n)y  soul  ?  I  fainted  from  it  yesterday ;  1  had  a 
crisis  of  despair  which  gave  me  convulsions  that  lasted  four 
hours.  Mon  ami,  if  I  must  tell  you  what  I  lielieve,  what  is 
true,  it  is  that  I  love  y(ju  to  madness,  to  the  ]"»iiit  (jf  Ijeliev- 
ing  that  T  never  loved  hctter,  Imt  —  1  have  need  of  your 
presence  to  luve  }-ou ;  all  the  rest  (jf  m\  life  is  s]>ent  in 
remembering,  in  regretting,  in  weeping. 

Yes,  go:  tell  me  that  you  love  another;  I  desire  it,  I 
wish  it ;  1  have  a  wound  so  deep,  so  lacerating,  that  I  can 
hope  for  no  relief  but  that  of  death.  The  relief  that  you 
have  given  me  is  like  the  effect  of  opium ;  it  suspends  my 
sorrow,  but  does  not  cure  it ;  on  the  contrary,  1  am  feebler 
and  more  sensitive  in  consequence.  You  are  right,  I  am  no 
longer  capable  of  love;  I  can  only  sufl'er.  I  did  find  hope  in 
}ou,  and  I  gave  myself  up  to  it ;  1  thought  that  the  pleasure 
of  loving  you  would  calm  my  sorrow,  Alas  1  in  vain  do  I 
flee  it ;  it  recalls  me  incessantly  ;  it  compels  me ;  it  leaves  me 
but  one  resource.  Ah  !  do  not  speak  to  me  of  that  which  I 
find  in  society ;  society  has  become  to  me  an  intolerable  re- 
straint ;  and  if  I  could  induce  M.  d'Alembert  not  to  live  with 
me,  my  door  would  be  closed.  How  can  you  suppose  that 
the  productions  of  the  mind  would  have  more  empire  over 
me  than  the  charm,  the  consolation  of  friendship  ?  I"  have 
the  most  worthy  friends,  the  most  feeling,  the  most  virtuous. 
Each,  in  his  own  way  and  according  to  his  ovm  tone,  would 
faia  reach  my  soul ;  I  am  filled  with  a  sense  of  so  much 
kindness  but  —  I  remain  unhappy:  you  alone,  mon  ami, 
have  the  power  to  make  me  know  happiness.  Alas !  it  holds 
me  to  life  while  invoking  death ! 

But  why  have  you  set  such  value  on  being  loved  by  me  ? 


1774]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  115 

You  had  no  need  of  it ;  you  knew  well  that  you  could  not 
return  it.  Have  you  played  with  my  despair  ?  Either  fill 
my  soul,  or  torture  it  no  longer ;  act  so  that  I  may  love  you 
always,  or  that  I  may  never  love  you  ;  in  short,  do  the  im- 
possible, —  calm  me,  or  I  die. 

At  this  moment  what  are  you  doing  ?  You  are  bringing 
trouble  into  a  soul  that  time  was  calming  ;  you  abandon  me 
to  my  sorrow.  Ah  !  if  you  had  feeling,  you  would  be  to  be 
pitied,  mon  ami,  }ou  would  know  remorse.  But  at  least,  if 
your  heart  cannot  fix  itself,  devote  yourself  to  your  talent, 
occupy  yourself,  work  to  some  purpose  ;  for  if  you  continue 
this  desultory,  restless  life,  I  fear  you  will  some  day  be  re- 
duced to  say, — 

"The  desire  for  fame  has  worn  out  my  soul." 

Saturday,  in  the  evening. 

It  was  not  mitil  tliis  morning  that  I  received  news  of  you, 
and  I  do  not  know  whence  or  how  it  came  ;  certainly  not  by 
the  post.  Believe  me  crazy  if  you  choose,  think  me  unjust, 
in  short,  what  you  please ;  but  it  will  not  ja-eveut  me  from 
telling  you  that  I  tliink  I  never  in  my  life  received  so  sharp, 
so  blasting  an  impression  as  that  your  letter  made  upon  me. 
I  felt  crushed  by  having  ever  given  to  any  one  the  right  to 
say  to  me  what  I  was  reading;  and  to  say  it  with  such  ease 
and  so  naturally  that  I  must  conclude  the  writer  was  simply 
pouring  out  his  soul  in  s|)eaking  to  me,  without  one  thouglit 
that  he  insulteil  me.  Oil  !  how  well  you  have  avenged  ]\I. 
de  Mora !  How  cruelly  you  punish  me  for  the  delirium,  the 
distraction  that  dragged  me  towards  you  !  How  I  detest 
them! 

I  will  enter  into  no  details  ;  you  have  neither  enough  kind- 
ness nor  enough  feeling  to  allow  my  soul  to  lower  itself 
to  complaint ;  my  heart,  my  self-love,  all  that  inspires  me, 


116  LETTERS   OF  [1774 

all  that  makes  me  feel,  think,  breathe,  in  a  word,  all  that 
is  I,  is  shocked,  wounded,  and  offended  forever.  You  have 
restored  to  me  enough  strength,  not  to  endure  my  son-ow  (it 
seems  to  me  gi-eater  and  more  crushing  than  ever), but  to  se- 
cure myself  from  ever  again  being  tortured  and  made  unhappy 
by  you.  Judge  of  the  excess  of  my  crime  and  the  greatness  of 
my  loss.  I  feel,  sorrow  does  not  deceive  me,  that  if  M.  de 
Mora  were  living  and  could  have  read  your  letter  he  would 
forgive  me,  he  would  console  me,  and  hate  3"0u. 

Ah  !  mon  Dieu  !  leave  me  my  regrets  ;  they  are  a  thousand 
times  more  dear  to  me  than  what  you  call  your  sentiment ; 
that  is  dreadful  to  me ;  its  expression  is  contemptuous,  and 
my  soul  repels  it  with  such  horror  that  that  alone  assures 
me  my  soul  is  worthy  of  virtue.  Were  you  even  to  think 
that  you  have  done  justly  by  me,  I  prefer  to  leave  you  in 
that  opinion  rather  than  enter  upon  any  explanation.  The 
matter  is  ended ;  be  with  me  as  you  can,  as  you  please ;  for 
myself,  in  future  (if  there  is  a  future  for  me)  I  shall  be  with 
you  as  I  ought  always  to  have  been,  and,  if  you  leave  no 
remorse  within  my  soul,  I  hope  to  forget  you.  I  feel  that  the 
wounds  of  self-love  chill  the  soul.  I  do  not  know  why  I 
have  let  you  read  what  I  wrote  you  before  I  received  your 
letter ;  you  will  see  there  all  my  weakness ;  but  you  will 
not  see  all  my  misfortune :  I  hoped  nothing  more  from 
you ;  I  did  not  seek  to  be  consoled.  Then  why  should  I 
complain  ?  Ah,  why  !  because  the  patient  doomed  to  death 
continues  to  expect  his  doctor ;  because  he  lifts  his  eyes  to 
his,  still  seeking  hope;  because  the  last  impulse  of  pain 
is  a  moan,  the  last  accent  of  the  soul  is  a  cry :  that  is  the 
explanation  of  my  inconsistency,  my  folly,  my  weakness. 
Oh  !  I  am  punished ! 


1774]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  117 

Eleven  o'clock,  1774. 

Have  the  delicacy  to  cease  persecuting  me.  I  have  but 
one  wish,  I  have  but  one  need :  it  is  not  to  see  you  again  in 
private.  I  can  do  nothing  for  your  happiness,  I  know  nothing 
with  which  to  console  you  :  leave  me  therefore,  and  do  not 
any  longer  take  pleasure  in  torturing  my  life.  I  make  you 
no  reproaches  ;  you  suffer,  I  pity  you,  and  I  shall  not  speak 
to  you  again  of  my  sorrows.  But  in  the  name  of  that  which 
still  has  some  empire  over  your  soul,  in  the  name  of  hon- 
our, in  the  name  of  virtue,  leave  me,  and  count  no  longer 
upon  me.  If  I  can  calm  myself,  I  shall  live ;  but  if  you  con- 
tinue to  act  as  you  do,  you  will  soon  reduce  me  to  the  strength 
of  despair :  spare  me  the  grief  and  the  embaiTassment  of  order- 
ing my  door  to  be  closed  to  you  during  the  hours  when  I  am 
alone.  I  request  you,  and  for  the  last  time,  not  to  come  to 
me  except  between  five  o'clock  and  nine. 

If  Mme.  de  .  .  .  could  read  my  soid,  I  assure  you  she 
would  not  hate  me ;  at  the  most,  I  have  put  a  few  regrets 
into  hers :  but  you  and  she  have  made  me  feel  the  tortures 
of  the  damned,  repentance,  hatred,  jealousy,  remorse,  con- 
tempt of  myself,  and  sometimes  of  you  —  m  short,  all  the 
misery  of  passion,  but  never  that  which  makes  the  hap- 
piness of  an  honourable  and  sensitive  soul.  This  is  what 
I  owe  to  you :  but  I  forgive  you.  If  I  clung  to  life  I  should 
not  be  so  generous ;  I  should  vow  to  you  an  implacable  ha- 
tred. But  soon  I  shall  no  more  cling  to  you  than  I  do 
to  life,  and  I  wish  to  employ  my  soul,  my  sensibility,  all 
that  remains  to  me  of  existence  in  loving,  adoring  the  only 
being  who  ever  truly  filled  my  soul,  and  to  whom  I  owe 
more  happiness  and  pleasure  than  almost  any  one  who  ever 
walked  this  earth  has  felt  or  could  imagine — and  it  is  you 
who  made  me  guilty  towards  that  man !  that  thought  sickens 
my  soul ;  I  turn  away  from  it.     I  wish  to  calm  myself,  and. 


118  LETTERS  OF  [1774 

if  1  can,  to  die.  I  repeat  to  you,  and  it  is  the  last  cry  of 
my  soul  to  you  :  in  pity,  leave  nie  ;  if  not,  you  will  know 
remorse. 

1774. 

Mon  Dicu  !  how  you  trouble  my  life !  you  make  me  pa.ss 
through  in  one  day  the  most  c(mtrary  conditions ;  sometimes 
I  am  carried  away  by  passionate  emotion ;  then  I  turn  to  ice 
at  the  tliought  that  you  will  not  respond  to  me.  Then  this 
last  reflectitm  makes  me  angry  with  my  own  nature,  and  to 
recover  a  little  calmness,  1  abandon  myself  to  the  heart- 
rending memory  of  him  whom  I  have  lost.  Presently  my 
soul  is  filled  with  gentler  feeling ;  I  am  in  a  state  to  dwell 
on  the  few  moments  of  happiness  that  I  have  tasted  in 
loving.  All  these  thoughts,  which  ought  to  take  me  farther 
from  you,  bring  me  closer.  I  feel  that  I  love  you,  and  so 
much  that  I  can  have  no  hope  of  repose  except  in  death. 
That  is  my  only  support,  the  only  help  that  I  expect,  the 
need  of  which  I  feel  in  almost  all  the  moments  of  my  life. 

Mon  ami,  you  have  shed  a  balm  on  the  little  wound  I 
gave  myself  last  night;  this  proves  the  truth  of  what  M. 
d'Alembert  asserts,  that  there  are  circumstances  in  which 
pain  is  not  pain.  Yes,  you  shall  have  the  Eulogy  before 
midnight.  I  have  sent  to  the  Archbishop  of  Toulouse 
[Lom^nie  de  Brieime]  to  return  it.  Adieu,  once  more, 
mon  ami;  you  cause  my  silence,  my  sadness,  my  unliap- 
piness ;  in  a  word,  it  is  you  who  give  life  to  my  soul, 
and  my  soul  drags  me  onward.  I  dare  not  tell  you  to  what 
point  I  love  you. 

Ten  o'clock,  1774. 

You  do  not  care  to  see  me  again  to-day ;  you  are  sufficiently 
indifferent  to  me,  so  that  I  need  not  fear  to  disturb  the  interests 
that  are  agitating  you.  Listen  to  me,  and  let  us  make  a  com- 
pact with  each  other,  such  as  Mme,  de  Montespan  proposed 


1774]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  119 

to  Mme.  de  Maintenon.  Being  forced  to  take  a  rather  long 
journey  with  her  tete  a  tete,  "Madame,"  she  said,  "let  us 
forget  our  hatred,  our  quarrels,  and  be  good  company  to  one 
another,"  Well !  I  say  to  you  :  "  Let  us  forget  our  mutual  dis- 
pleasure, and  do  you  be  docile  enough  to  bring  back  to  me 
what  I  asked  you  for."  Yes,  it  is  I  who  am  speaking  to  you, 
and  I  am  not  mad ;  at  any  rate,  my  madness  is  of  a  kind  less 

harsh  and  more  unhappy. 

August  25,  1774. 

Yes,  mon  ami,  that  which  has  most  force,  most  power  in 
nature,  is  assuredly  passion;  it  has  just  imposed  upon  me 
privation,  and  it  enables  me  to  bear  it  with  a  thousand-fold 
more  courage  than  reason  or  virtue  could  inspire.  But  pas- 
sion is  an  absolute  tyrant ;  a  tyrant  that  makes  slaves  of 
those  only  who  hate  and  treasure,  by  turns,  their  chain,  and 
never  have  strength  to  break  it.  It  commands  me  to-day 
to  pursue  a  conduct  absolutely  the  contrary  to  that  I  have 
prescribed  to  myself  for  the  last  two  weeks.  I  see  my  own 
inconsistency ;  I  am  ashamed  of  it,  but  I  yield  to  the  need 
of  mv  heart.  I  tind  a  sweetness  in  being  weak,  and  though 
you  may  abuse  it,  mon  ami,  I  will  love  you,  and  will  say  it 
to  you  sometimes  with  pleasure,  oftener  with  pain  when  I 
think  you  will  not  respond  to  it. 

Listen  to  all  I  have  suffered  since  you  left  me.  An  hour 
after  your  departure,  I  learned  that  you  had  hidden  from 
me  that  Mme.  de  .  .  .  had  started  the  night  before.  Then 
I  believed  you  had  delayed  your  departure  on  her  account. 
I  judged  you  with  a  passion  the  true  character  of  which  is 
never  to  see  things  as  they  are.  I  saw  and  believed  all  that 
could  distress  nde  most :  —  I  was  deceived ;  you  were  guilty, 
you  had  come  to  bid  me  adieu  in  the  very  act  of  abusing  my 
tenderness.  That  thought  roused  my  soul  to  indignation,  it 
irritated  my  self-love;  I  felt  myself  at  the  summit  of  un- 


120  LETTERS   OF  [1774 

happiness;  I  could  love  you  no  longer;  I  abhorred  the  mo- 
ments of  pleasure  and  consolation  which  I  owed  to  you.  You 
had  snatched  me  from  death,  tlie  sole  resource,  the  sole  sup- 
port which  1  had  promised  myself  when  I  trembled  for  tlie 
life  of  M.  de  Mora.  You  made  me  survive  that  dreadful 
moment;  you  iilled  my  soul  with  remorse,  and  you  made  me 
experience  a  greater  misfortime  still  —  that  of  hating  you ; 
yes,  vion  ami,  hating  y(m.  For  eight  days  I  was  filled  by 
that  horrible  sentiment,  although  during  that  time  I  received 
your  letter  from  Chartres.  The  need  of  kn(»wiug  how  you 
were  in  health  made  me  break  a  resolution  I  had  formed  to 
open  no  more  of  your  letters.  You  told  me  that  you  were 
well ;  you  informed  me  that,  in  spite  of  my  request,  you  had 
taken  some  of  my  letters,  and  }()U  quoted  a  verse  from 
"  Zaire,"  which  seemed  to  sneer  at  my  unhappiness  ;  and 
then  —  what  hurt  me  most  of  all  —  the  regrets  expressed  in 
the  letter  seemed  vague,  and  more  fitted  to  relieve  your 
soul  than  to  touch  mine.  In  a  word,  I  made  poison  of  all 
you  said  to  me,  and  more  than  ever  I  resolved  not  to  love 
you,  and  to  open  no  more  of  your  letters.  I  kept  that  reso- 
lution, which  rent  my  heart  and  made  me  ill.  Since  your 
departure  I  am  changed  and  shrunken  as  if  I  had  had  a  great 
illness.  Ah  !  this  fever  of  the  soul,  which  rises  to  delirium, 
is  indeed  a  cruel  illness;  there  is  no  bodily  frame  robust 
enough  to  bear  such  suffering.  Mon  ami,  pity  me ;  you  have 
done  me  harm. 

I  received  your  letter  from  Eochambeau  only  on  Saturday. 
I  did  not  open  it,  and  as  I  put  it  away  in  my  portfolio,  my 
heart  beat  ^dolently :  but  I  commanded  myself  to  be  strong, 
and  I  was.  Ah !  how  much  it  cost  me  to  keep  that  letter 
unopened !  how  many  times  I  read  the  address !  how  often  I 
held  it  in  my  hands  !  at  night,  even,  T  felt  the  need  of  touch- 
ing it.     In  the  excess  of  my  weakness  I  told  myself  I  was 


1774]  MLLE.   DE  LESPINASSE.  121 

strong,  that  I  resisted  my  greatest  pleasure,  and  —  see  my 
sort  of  madness  !  —  I  loved  you  then  more  actively  than  ever. 
Nothing,  for  six  days,  could  distract  my  mind  from  that 
sealed  letter ;  if  I  had  opened  it  the  moment  I  received  it, 
its  impression  could  not  have  been  so  sharp  nor  so  profoimd. 
At  last,  at  last,  yesterday,  receiving  no  letters  from  Chante- 
loup,  from  which  place  you  had  promised  to  write  to  me,  I 
was  struck  with  the  thought  that  you  might  be  HI  at 
Eochambeau,  and,  without  knowing  what  I  was  doing, 
nor  to  what  I  yielded,  your  letter  was  read,  re-read,  wetted 
with  my  tears,  before  1  thought  that  I  was  not  to  read 
it.  Ah !  moil  ami,  how  much  I  might  have  lost !  I  adore 
your  sensibility. 

"Wliat  you  tell  me  of  Bordeaux  opened  a  wound  that  is  not 
yet  closed,  and  never  will  be.^  No,  my  life  wUl  not  be  long 
enough  to  mourn  and  cherish  the  memory  of  the  most  sensi- 
tive, most  virtuous  man  who  ever  existed.  What  an  awful 
thouglit !  I  troubled  his  last  days.  Fearing  to  have  to  com- 
plain of  me  he  exjxjsed  his  life  to  come  to  me,  and  his  last 
impulse  was  an  action  of  tenderness  and  passion.  I  do  not 
know  if  I  shall  ever  recover  strength  to  read  again  his  last 
words.  If  I  had  not  loved  you,  mon  ami,  they  would  have 
killed  me.  1  shudder  still ;  I  see  them ;  and  it  is  you  who 
made  me  guilty  ;  it  is  you  who  made  me  live ;  it  is  you  who 
brought  trouble  into  my  soul ;  it  is  you  that  I  love,  that  I  hate, 
you  who  rend  and  charm  a  heart  that  is  wholly  yotirs.  Mon 
ami,  do  not  fear  to  be  sad  with  me ;  that  is  my  tone  ;  sadness 
is  my  existence  ;  you  alone  —  yes,  you  alone  have  the  power 
to  change  my  disposition ;  your  presence  leaves  me  neither 
memories  nor  pain.  I  have  experienced  that  you  can  divert 
even  my  physical  sufferings.  I  love  you,  and  all  my  faculties 
are  employed  and  spell-bound  when  I  see  you. 

1  M.  de  Mora  died  at  Bordeaux.  —  Tr. 


122  LETTERS   OF  [1774 

Friday  morning,  August  26,  1774. 

Mon  ami.  I  was  interrupted  yesterday.  There  is  so  much 
news,  so  much  going  and  coming,  such  j(jy,  that  one  hardly 
knows  whom  to  listen  to.  1  should  like  to  be  glad,  but  that 
is  impossible.  A  few  months  ago  I  should  have  been  trans- 
ported at  both  the  good  to  be  hoped  and  tlie  evil  from 
which  we  are  delivered ;  at  the  present  moment  I  am  glad 
only  by  thought,  and  by  reflection  of  the  tone  of  all  I  see 
and  all  I  hear.  You  know  that  M.  Turgot.is  made  controller- 
general  [in  place  of  tlie  Abb^  Terrai],  —  he  enters  the  Council; 
M.  dAngevilliers  has  the  department  of  buildings;  M.  de 
Miromesnil  is  Keeper  of  the  Seals ;  the  chancellor  is  exiled 
to  Normandy ;  M.  de  Sartine  has  the  navy,  but  they  say  it  is 
only  wliile  awaiting  the  department  of  M.  de  la  VriQifere; 
M.  Lenoir  is  lieutenant  of  police ;  M.  de  Fitz-James  does  not 
go  to  Bretagne ;  it  is  the  Due  de  Penthifevre  who  is  to  hold 
the  State  Assembly  with  M.  de  Fourgueux —  But  I  am 
really  as  piipiante  as  M.  Alarm,  from  whom  they  have  taken 
the  Gazette  to  give  it  to  an  Abb^  Aumont,  because  he  told 
old  news.  Not  to  return  to  this  matter  I  must  add  that  the 
Baron  de  Breteuil  goes  to  Vienna,  and  M.  de  la  Yauguyon 
to  Naples. 

Now  let  us  pass  to  social  news.  Yesterday  M.  d'Alem- 
bert  had  the  greatest  success  at  the  Academy.  I  was  not  a 
witness  of  it,  being  too  ill ;  I  had  only  strength  to  sit  .in  my 
usual  chair.  He  read  his  Eulog)^  on  Despreaux  [Boileau] 
and  some  anecdotes  about  Fenelon,  which  they  say  were 
delightful.  I  would  not  listen  to  them  this  week,  having 
my  head  full  of  that  letter  I  did  not  open.  One  needs  calm- 
ness to  listen ;  consequently,  I  listen  very  little.  Mon  ami, 
they  are  printing  a  life  of  Catinat:  the  author  is  a  M.  Turpin, 
who  did  the  "  Life  of  the  Great  Conde."  M.  d'Alembert  has 
read  it,  and  from  what  he  says  I  judge  it  will  take  neither 


1774]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  123 

the  piquancy  nor  the  merit  from  your  "  Eulogy  of  Catinat ; " 
as  soon  as  it  appears  I  will  send  it  to  you. 

I  have  seen  a  great  deal  of  Mme.  de  Boufflers  since  your 
departure,  and  I  shall  either  humble  or  exalt  your  vanity  by 
telling  you  that  she  never  once  named  you.  If  that  is 
natural,  it  is  very  cold ;  if  there  is  a  plan,  it  is  very  warm. 
We  spent  an  evening  with  her,  we  went  to  the  fair  together, 
she  came  to  see  me,  and  we  are  all  going  to  the  catafalque. 
But  for  my  benefit  alone  are  some  excellent  pine-apples  which 
she  has  sent  me,  and  a  letter  of  four  pages  on  public  affairs, 
on  the  glory  with  which  the  Prince  de  Conti  has  covered 
himself,  and  on  her  step-daughter,  —  not  to  speak  of  very 
flattering  praises  for  me.  I  shall  make  you  die  of  jealousy 
some  day  when  I  read  it  to  you  ;  but  before  then  you  will 
coquet  and  please  and  fascinate  so  many  that  my  successes 
will  seem  nothing.  But,  mon  ami,  why  did  you  not  write 
me  from  Chanteloup  ?  ^  have  you  already  nothing  to  say  to 
me  ?  The  post  leaves  every  day,  and  if  it  did  not,  what 
matter  ?  the  letter  would  be  in  tlie  post,  and  you  need  not 
be  a  century  deprived  of  the  pleasure  of  talking  with  one 
who  loves  you :  remark  that  I  dare  not  say  "  one  whom  you 
love."  If  you  arrive  Tuesday  after  the  courier  from  Bor- 
deaux, I  shall  have  to  wait  till  Wednesday,  and  that  is  hold- 
ing me  in  purgatory  after  keeping  me  for  fifteen  days  in  hell. 

If  you  receive  this  letter  in  Bordeaux,  as  I  do  not  doubt 
you  will,  I  retract  and  will  ask  you  to  go  and  see  that  con- 
sul :  perhaps  I  shall  thus  obtain  more  details.  He  will  tell 
you  of  the  most  lovable,  most  interesting  of  beings,  whom  I 
ought  to  have  loved  solely,  whom  I  should  never  have  injured 
if,  by  a  fatality  I  detest,  I  had  not  been  unable  to  escape  a 

^  Where  M.  de  Guihert  often  went,  as  was  then  the  fashion,  to  visit  the 
Due  de  Choiseul  in  his  popular  exile  to  his  country-seat  of  that  name. — 
Fb.  Ed, 


124  LETTERS  OF  [1774 

new  form  of  evil  —  for  there  is  little  that  I  have  not  experi- 
enced. Some  day,  rtion  ami,  I  will  tell  you  things  that  are 
not  to  be  found  in  the  novels  of  Prc^vost  or  Kichardson.  My 
history  is  made  up  of  fatal  circumstances  which  prove  to 
me  that  the  true  is  often  the  most  unlikely.  The  heroines 
of  novels  have  little  to  say  about  their  education;  mine 
deserves  to  be  written  down  for  its  singularity.  Some  even- 
ing, next  winter,  when  we  are  very  sad  and  inclined  to  reflec- 
tion, I  will  give  you  the  pastime  of  listening  to  a  written 
paper  which  would  interest  you  if  you  foimd  it  in  a  book, 
though  it  will  inspire  you  with  a  great  horror  of  the 
human  species.  Ah !  how  cruel  mankind  are !  tigers  are 
kind  compared  with  them.  I  ought  naturally  to  devote 
myself  to  hating;  I  have  ill-fultilled  my  destiny;  I  have 
loved  much  and  hated  little.  Mon  Dieu  !■  mon  ami,  I  am  a 
hundred  years  old;  this  life  of  mine  which  looks  to  be  so 
uniform,  so  monotonous,  has  been  a  prey  to  all  misfortunes, 
exposed  to  all  the  villanous  passions  which  stir  the  un- 
worthy —  but  where  am  I  wandering  ?  wholly  given  to  you 
whom  I  love,  who  sustain  and  defend  my  life,  why  do  I 
cast  my  eyes  on  objects  which  made  me  detest  it  ? 

Saturday,  August  27,  1774. 
Mon  ami,  I  have  no  news  of  you.  I  said  to  myself  a 
hundred  times  :  "  He  must  have  arrived  very  late  ;  he  would 
not  think  of  the  value  of  a  single  hour  to  me."  That 
makes  a  difference  of  four  days ;  I  am  now  postponed  till 
Wednesday !  Well !  the  pains  I  have  taken  not  to  let  my 
soul  rest  on  that  hope  have  served  for  nothing.  The  courier 
has  arrived ;  I  received  three  letters ;  but  I  could  not  read 
them  because  yours  was  missmg.  Mon  Dieu  !  you  are  neither 
happy  enough  nor  unhappy  enough  to  experience  that  feel- 
ing.    Mon  ami,  if  I  do  not  hear  from  you  next  Wednesday, 


1774]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  125 

I  will  not  wi'ite  to  you  again.  You  have  done  me  one  wrong, 
but  if  you  do  me  a  thousand  more,  I  here  declare  to  you 
that  I  will  not  forgive  you,  and  that  I  shall  not  love  you  less. 
You  see  that  I  am  talking  to  you  of  the  impossible :  the 
logic  of  the  heart  is  absurd.  In  God's  name,  act  so  that  I 
shall  never  reason  more  wisely. 

How  much  you  are  missed  at  this  moment !  the  excite- 
ment is  general,  mon  ami.  There  is  this  difference  between 
my  state  of  mind  and  that  of  all  the  persons  I  see :  they  are 
transported  with  joy  at  the  happiness  they  foretell,  while  I 
only  breathe  the  freer  for  our  deliverance  from  evil.  Mon 
Dieu  !  my  soul  cannot  rise  to  joy ;  it  is  filled  with  regrets 
and  heart-breaking  memories  ;  it  is  stiiTed  by  a  sentiment 
that  troubles  it ;  that  often  gives  it  ^^iolent  emotions,  but 
very  rarely  any  pleasure.  In  such  a  state,  public  joy  is  only 
felt  by  thought  and  reflection ;  reasonable  pleasures  are  so 
moderate  '  my  friends  are  displeased  that  they  cannot  drag 
me  into  enthusiasm.  "  I  am  very  sorry,"  I  say  to  them,  "  but 
I  have  no  longer  the  strength  to  be  glad."  Nevertheless,  I 
am  very  pleased  that  M.  Turgot  has  already  dismissed  a 
scoundrel,  the  man  of  the  wheat  affah  [treasurer  of  the 
king's  granaries].  I  must  tell  you  of  a  compliment  the  fish- 
women  paid  to  the  king  [Louis  XVI.]  on  his  fete-day : 
"  Sire,  we  have  come  to  compliment  Your  Majesty  on  the 
hvnt  you  had  yesterday ;  never  did  yuui  grandfather  have  a 
better."  The  Comte  de  C  .  .  .  ,  who  is  at  Martigny  with  M. 
de  Trudaiue,  has  written  me  three  pages  full  of  enthusi- 
asm and  transport.  How  happy  they  are  !  hope  keeps  them 
young.  Alas  !  how  old  one  feels  when  one  has  lost  it,  when 
nothing  remains  but  to  escape  despair ' 

Tell  me  if  you  are  writing  many  verses ;  if  you  are  getting 
a  habit  of  making  haste  sloivly,  if  you  have  resolved  to  do  like 
Racine,  who  wrote  poetry  reluctantly.     Mon  ami,  I  impose 


126  LETTERS   OF  [1774 

upon  you  the  pleasure  of  reading,  and  re-reading  every  morn- 
ing a  scene  of  that  divine  iiuisic;  then  you  must  walk  about, 
and  tlien  compose  verses,  and  with  the  talent  that  nature  has 
given  you  to  think  and  feel  strongly,  I  will  answer  for  it 
that  you  will  make  very  noble  ones.  But  what  am  I  doing  ? 
Advising  a  man  wlio  has  a  great  contempt  for  my  taste,  who 
thinks  me  a  fool,  wlio  has  never  seen  me  sensible  about  any- 
thing, and  who,  judging  me  thus,  may  perhaps  be  sensible 
himself  and  show  as  nnich  accuracy  as  justice.  Adieu,  mon 
ami.  If  you  loved  me  I  should  not  be  so  modest;  I  should 
feel  I  had  nothing  in  all  nature  to  envy. 

■  I  wrote  you  a  volume  yesterday  to  Bordeaux.  That  name 
is  dreadful  to  me ;  it  touches  the  sensitive  and  painful  nerve 
of  my  soul.     Adieu,  adieu. 

Monday,  August  29,  1774. 

You  know  that  M.  Turgot  is  controller-general,  but  what 
you  do  not  know  is  the  conversation  he  had  with  the  king 
on  the  subject.  He  had  shown  some  reluctance  to  accept 
the  office  when  M.  de  Maurepas  offered  it  to  him  on  behalf 
of  His  Majesty.  The  king  said  to  him,  "  So  you  do  not  wish 
to  be  controller-general?"  "Sire,"  replied  M.  Turgot,  "I 
must  admit  to  Your  Majesty  that  I  should  have  preferred  to 
keep  the  ministry  of  the  navy,  because  it  is  a  safer  office  and 
I  could  be  more  certain  of  doing  well  in  it ;  but  at  such  a 
moment  as  this  it  is  not  to  the  king  I  give  myself,  it  is  to 
the  honest  man."  The  king  took  both  his  hands,  and  said, 
"  You  shall  not  be  mistaken."  M.  Turgot  added :  "  Su-e,  I 
must  represent  to  Y.  M.  the  necessity  of  economy,  of  which 
Y.  M.  ought  to  set  the  first  example ;  the  Abbd  Terrai  has  no 
doubt  already  said  this  to  Your  Majesty."  "Yes,"  replied 
the  king,  "he  has  said  it,  but  he  has  never  said  it  in  the 
way  that  you  have."  All  this  is  just  as  if  you  had  heard 
it,  for  M.  Turgot  never  adds  a  word  to  the  truth.     This  emo- 


1774]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  127 

tion  of  the  soul  of  the  king  gives  great  hope  to  M.  Turgot, 
and  I  think  that  you  will  have  as  much  as  he.  M.  de 
Yaines  is  given  the  place  of  M.  Leclerc  [head-clerk  of  the 
Treasury]  ;  but  there  will  be  no  luxiny,  no  show,  no  valet 
de  chambre,  no  audience,  in  a  word,  the  gi-eatest  simplicity, 
that  is  to  say,  the  style  of  M.  Turgot.  Yes,  I  assure  you, 
you  are  much  missed  here ;  you  would  have  shared  the  trans- 
ports of  the  universal  joy.  People  begin  to  feel  the  need  of 
silence  to  compose  themselves  and  let  them  think  of  all 
the  good  they  expect.  The  personal  interests  remain,  which 
must  always  be  counted  for  something. 

The  Chevalier  d'Aguesseau  has  just  gratified  and  shocked 
my  heart  at  one  and  the  same  time;  he  knows  that  you 
were  twenty-four  hours  at  Chanteloup,  that  you  are  quite 
well,  and  that  you  reached  Bordeaux  on  the  2 2d.  After  that, 
it  was  natural  that  your  friends  should  hear  from  you  on 
Saturday,  27th.  I  do  not  complain  of  the  preference  that 
you  have  given  them ;  but,  mon  ami,  it  would  be  sweet  to  be 
able  to  congratulate  myself  and  to  thank  you  for  an  atten- 
tion I  should  have  felt  so  much  and  of  which  my  soul  had 
need.  Adieu ;  here  are  three  letters  in  a  very  short  time. 
If  I  do  not  have  one  from  you  on  Wednesday  1  believe  that 
I  shall  be  able  to  keep  silence.  All  my  friends  ask  news  of 
you  with  mterest,  especially  M.  d'Alembert. 

I  think  I  have  not  told  you  of  the  success  of  the  Chevalier 
de  Chastellux  m  a  trip  of  four  days  which  he  has  just  made 
to  Villers-Cotterets  [country-seat  of  the  Due  d'Orl^ans]. 
He  gave  six  readings  there,  though  he  had  but  four  plays 
with  him ;  he  read  two  of  them  twice.  He  thinks  that  "  Les 
Pretentions  "  was  not  much  liked  ;  I  scolded  the  Archbishop 
of  Toulouse,  who  was  present,  for  this.  If  you  knew  how  be 
justified  himself  you  would  die  of  laughmg.  The  chevalier 
related  his  successes  to  me  with  much  naivete.     I  rejoiced  ; 


128  LETTERS   OF  [1774 

but  I  am  sorry  to  see  him  looking  ill ;  I  am  afraid  his  health 
is  seriously  threatened.  M.  Watelet  is  quite  ill  with  a 
chest  affection ;  he  is  taking  asses'  milk.  I  am  very  ]X)orly 
the  last  few  days,  but  that  is  almost  my  hal)itual  condition ; 
the  duration  of  my  trouble  takes  from  me  even  the  consola- 
tion of  complauiing  of  it. 

Adieu  again.  Did  1  n<U  tell  you  that  I  had  been  to  hear 
Millico  sing  ?  He  is  an  Italian.  Never,  no  never  was  the 
perfection  of  singing  so  united  with  sensibility  and  expres- 
sion. What  tears  he  made  me  shed !  what  trouble  he 
brought  into  my  soul !  No  singing  ever  left  so  deep,  so  sensi- 
tive, so  heart-breaking  an  impression ;  I  could  have  listened 
to  him  till  it  killed  me.  Oh  !  how  preferable  such  a  death 
to  life  ! 

Thursday,  September  5,  1774. 

Perhaps  you  will  never  read  what  I  am  going  to  write; 
perhaps,  however,  you  will  receive  it  immediatel}'.  The  letter 
that  1  expect  Saturday  will,  1  think,  decide  whether  to  burn 
what  I  now  write,  or  send  it  to  you. 

Listen  to  me  :  it  seems  to  me  that  all  the  passions  of  my 
soul  are  calmed ;  it  has  returned,  it  is  restored  to  its  first,  its 
only  object.  Yes,  mon  ami,  1  do  not  deceive  myself;  my 
memories,  my  regrets  even,  are  dearer,  closer,  more  sacred 
to  me  than  the  violent  sentiment  I  have  had  for  you  and 
the  passionate  desire  1  have  had  to  see  you  share  it.  I  have 
gathered  myself  together ;  I  have  re-entered  myself ;  1  have 
judged  myself,  and  you  also ;  but  I  have  pronounced  judg- 
ment on  myself  only ;  I  have  seen  that  I  was  seeking  the 
impossible,  namely  :  that  you  shoidd  love  me. 

By  an  unspeakable  good  fortune,  which  seldom  happens, 
the  most  tender,  the  most  perfect,  the  most  charming  being 
who  ever  existed  gave  me,  abandoned  to  me  his  soul,  his 
thought,  and  all  his  existence.     However  unworthy  I  was 


1774]  MLLE.  DE  LESPINASSE.  129 

of  his  choice  and  of  the  gift  he  made  me,  I  rejoiced  in  it, 
with  amazement  and  transport.  When  I  spoke  to  him  of 
the  vast  distance  which  nature  had  placed  between  us,  I 
grieved  his  heart ;  and  he  soon  persuaded  me  that  all  was 
equal  between  us  because  I  loved  him.  No,  never  could 
beauty,  charm,  youth,  virtue,  merit  be  flattered  and  exalted 
to  a  higher  degree  than  M,  de  Mora  would  fain  have 
made  my  vanity  enjoy;  but  he  saw  my  soul;  the  passion 
that  filled  it  cast  me  far  indeed  from  the  enjoyments  of 
vanity.  I  tell  you  all  this,  moii  ami,  not  from  a  weakness 
that  would  be  too  silly  and  too  unworthy  of  the  regrets 
which  rend  my  heart,  but  to  justify  myself  to  you  —  yes, 
justify  myself. 

I  have  loved  you  with  transport;  but  this  cannot  excuse 
in  your  eyes  the  wish  1  dared  to  form  of  seeing  you  share 
my  feeling ;  that  pretension  must  have  seemed  to  you  mad- 
ness !  1,  to  fix  a  man  of  your  age,  who  joins  to  all  agi'eeable 
qualities  the  talents  and  the  wit  which  must  make  him  an 
object  of  preference  to  all  the  women  who  have  the  most 
right  to  please,  fascinate,  and  attach  !  Mon  ami,  I  am  filled 
with  confusion  in  thinking  to  what  a  point  you  must  have 
thought  my  vanity  blind  and  my  reason  astray.  Yes,  I 
blame  myself  sorrowfully :  the  liking  you  inspired  in  me, 
the  remorse  which  tortured  me,  the  passion  felt  for  me  by 
INI.  de  ]\Iora,  all  that  combined  has  led  me  into  an  eiTor  I 
ablior,  —  for  I  must  confess  to  you  that  m)-  thoughts  went 
farther  still ;  I  was  convinced  that  you  might  love  me,  and 
that  convicti(m,  so  foolish,  so  self-conceited,  dragged  me  into 
the  abyss. 

No  doubt  it  is  late,  too  late,  to  tell  myself  of  my  mistake. 
I  detest  it,  and  in  despising  myself  I  have  tried  to  hate  you ; 
in  fact,  you  have  excited  in  me  tliat  horrible  emotion;  I 
have  even  written   to   you  to  that  effect;   it  was  the   last 

9 


130  LETTERS   OF  [1774 

result,  tlie  last  effect  of  the  passion  which  agitated  me. 
1  am  far  from  making  for  myself  a  merit  of  the  calmness  to 
which  I  have  returned ;  it  is,  in  fact,  another  blessing  from 
the  man  I  adored.  I  will  not  explain  to  you  all  that  has 
passed  within  me  during  the  last  fifteen  days ;  sufficient  to 
say  that  I  know  myself  no  longer :  the  thought  of  you  no 
longer  fills  my  mind,  and  if  remorse  were  not  beside  my 
grief,  I  believe  the  thought  of  you  would  be  very  far  away 
from  me.  Not  that  I  could  ever  cease  to  feel  a  friendship 
for  you,  and  an  interest  in  your  happiness;  but  this  will  be 
a  tempered  feeling,  which  may,  if  you  respond  to  it,  give  me 
many  moments  of  sweetness  without  ever  troubling  or  tor- 
turing my  soul.  Oh !  with  what  horrors  it  has  been  filled  ! 
It  seems  to  me  miraculous  that  I  have  not  succuml^ed  to  the 
despair  to  which  I  have  been  brought.  But  this  shock  by 
depressmg  my  body  has  given  tone  to  my  soul :  it  remains 
tender,  but  it  feels  no  passion.  No  longer  do  I  feel  hatred,  or 
vengeance,  or  —  Ah,  man  Dieu  !  what  word  was  I  about  to 
utter?  one  that  was  no  more  allied  to  my  thought  than  to 
the  memory  of  M.  de  Mora.  I  still  owe  to  him  all  that  my 
heart  can  feel  that  is  most  consoling,  most  tender,  regrets 
and  tears.  All  the  details  that  you  have  sent  me  have  been 
bathed  in  my  tears.  I  thank  you  for  them ;  I  owe  to  you  a 
sensation  which  I  prefer  to  all  pleasure  that  does  not  come 
from  my  thoughts  of  M.  de  Mora. 

I  have  read  and  re-read  your  letters,  that  from  Bordeaux, 
and  that  of  the  8tli  from  Montauban.  I  pity  you  sincerely 
for  being  so  agitated  and  tormented  without  any  absolute 
reason  for  it ;  but  vague  troubles  are  fugitive,  at  least  I  hope 
so,  for  I  desire  your  peace  and  happiness  with  all  my  soul. 
I  cannot  trouble  either  the  one  or  the  other,  though  your 
delicacy  may  make  you  suffer  for  the  harm  you  have  done 
me.     I  forgive  it  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart ;   forget  it, 


1774]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  131 

never  speak  to  me  about  it,  and  leave  me  to  believe  that 
you  think  me  more  unhappy  than  culpable.  You  are  not 
obliged  to  believe  me,  and  I  have  lost  the  right  of  convinc- 
ing you  ;  but  I  shall  still  venture  to  say  with  Jean-Jacques, 
"  My  soul  was  never  made  for  degi'adation."  The  strongest 
passion,  the  purest,  inspired  it  too  long;  he  who  was  the 
object  of  that  passion  was  too  ^dl•tuous ;  his  soul  was  too 
great,  too  lofty  to  let  him  desire  to  reign  in  mine,  if  mine 
had  been  abject  and  contemptible.  His  prepossession,  his 
'passion  for  me  raised  me  to  his  level.  Man  Dieu  !  how  I 
have  fallen !  how  sunken  I  am  !  but  he  never  knew  it.  My 
misery  is  dreadful ;  he  would  have  shared  it.  He  died  for 
me.  I  should  have  made  him  live  unhappy.  Oh,  my  friend ! 
if  in  the  region  of  the  dead  you  still  can  hear  me,  be  tender 
to  my  sorrow,  my  repentance.  I  have  been  guilty,  I  have 
wronged  you,  but  my  despair,  has  it  not  expiated  my  crime  ? 
I  have  lost  you  :  I  live,  yes,  I  live ;  is  not  that  being  punished 
enough  ? 

Forgive  me  the  impulse  that  has  led  me  to  him  whom  I 
fain  would  follow.  Adieu.  If  I  receive  a  letter  from  you 
on  Saturday  I  will  add  a  few  words  ;  but  I  forgive  you  in 
advance  for  whatever  you  may  say  that  is  offensive  to  me ; 
and  I  retract,  with  the  strength  and  reason  that  remain  to 
me,  all  that  I  have  written  in  the  con\'ulsit)ns  of  despair. 
It  is  now  that  I  place  in  your  hands  my  true  profession 
of  faith ;  I  promise  and  pledge  myself  to  exact  no  more 
and  expect  no  more  from  you.  If  you  preserve  to  me 
your  friendship  I  shall  enjoy  it  with  peace  and  gratitude ;  if 
you  do  not  think  me  worthy  of  it  I  shall  grieve,  but  I  shall 
not  consider  you  unjust.  Adieu,  mon  ami  ;  it  is  friendship 
that  now  employs  that  word  ;  it  is  the  dearer  to  my  heart 
now  that  it  can  no  longer  trouble  it. 


132  LETTERS   OF  [1774 

Saturday,  eleven  o'clock  at  night. 

Here  is  your  answer :  it  is  such  as  I  could  have  wished, 
cold  and  restrained.  Mon  and,  we  shall  now  understand 
each  other ;  my  soul  is  in  the  key  of  yours ;  my  letter  did 
not  offend  you;  you  have  judged  marvellously  well;  you 
have  had  over  me  the  advantage  of  a  reasonable  man  over 
an  impassioned  natm-e.  You  had  coolness,  I  had  frenzy,  but 
it  was  the  last  paroxysm  of  a  dreadful  malady,  of  which  one 
had  better  die  than  recover,  because  the  violence  of  these  fits 
of  fever  blasts  and  lays  low  the  strength  of  the  unliappy' 
patient  —  but  enough,  too  much,  no  doubt,  on  what  you  call 
my  "  injustice "  and  your  "  delicacy."  Mon  ami,  do  you 
know  what  is  delicate  ?  It  would  have  been  to  suppress  the 
six  or  seven  pages  you  had  written  me  before  you  received 
my  letter. 

What  superiority  reason  has  over  passion !  how  it  rules 
conduct !  It  brings  and  sheds  peace  on  all ;  in  a  word,  it  is 
so  decorous,  so  circumspect,  that  I  ought  to  thank  you  to-day 
for  what  you  have  said  and  what  you  have  not  said  to  me. 
Mon  ami,  your  Friday  letter  is  amiable  ;  it  is  gentle,  obliging, 
reasonable ;  it  has  the  tone  and  charm  of  confidence ;  but  it 
is  sad,  and  I  am  sorry  if  that  is  the  disposition  of  your  soul. 
I  have  not  in  me  the  wherewithal  to  rouse  you ;  I  have  not 
even  the  strength  to  talk  with  you  to-night.  Adieu !  you 
expect  no  further  news  of  me,  do  you  ? 

Monday  evening,  September  19,  1774. 
I  wish  to  write  to  you.  I  want  to  answer  you ;  if  I  miss 
to-morrow's  courier  I  must  wait  till  Saturday;  meanwhile 
my  soul  is  dead.  I  have  just  re-read  your  letter ;  I  thought 
it  would  revive  me,  but  not  so.  ...  I  feel  an  awful  sterility 
within  me,  and  if  I  were  to  let  myself  go  this  is  how  I 
should  answer  you :  "  All  the  reflections  that  3^  ou  make  on 


1774]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  133 

your  present  situation  are  very  reasonable ;  but  if  you  con- 
cern yourself  about  the  future  you  are  even  more  sure  to  find 
subjects  for  hope  than  motives  for  fear.  It  seems  to  me 
that  men  of  merit  never  had  finer  chances  before  them ; 
with  virtue,  ideas,  and  talent  they  can  pretend  to  anything. 
This  is  not  the  moment  for  discouragement ;  on  the  contrary, 
they  should  come  forward  now  with  confidence,  not  to  seek 
favours,  but  to  make  themselves  known  and  to  get  justice 
done  to  them." 

With  regard  to  the  late  complete  upsetting  in  the  domains 
[the  matter  of  "  farms  "  and  farmers-general],  I  find  it  diffi- 
cult to  believe  that  M.  Turgot  will,  ui  any  respect,  follow  or 
execute  the  projects  of  the  Abb^  Terrai.  If,  however,  the 
impossible  happens,  and  he  should  choose  to  carry  out  that 
plan,  M.  de  Vaines  will  be  in  tlie  way  of  doing  you  service. 
He  will  do  the  impossible  to  oblige  you  ;  he  has  a  particular 
attraction  towards  you ;  I  never  see  him  that  he  does  not 
ask  for  news  of  you ;  the  day  of  your  departure  I  received  a 
note  from  him  in  which  were  these  words :  "  I  entreat  you 
to  send  me  news  of  yourself  and  of  M.  de  Guibert,  who 
greatly  interests  those  who  love  a  frank  and  ardent  soul  that 
springs  on  all  sides  towards  glory."  I  wanted  to  send  you 
these  words,  and  then  I  was  deterred  by  an  interest  that  does 
not  allow  of  words.  You  ought  to  write  to  M.  de  Vaines ; 
not  on  his  good  fortune,  for  it  is  just  the  reverse;  he  has 
sacrificed  his  own  interests  to  his  friendship  for  M.  Turgot 
and  his  love  for  the  public  good ;  in  a  word,  he  was  led  away 
by  his  desire  to  assist  in  that  good ;  he  has  had  the  activity 
of  virtue ;  but  now  that  a  little  calmness  has  returned  he 
sees  himself  burdened  with  a  sad  labour. 

I  do  not  contend  against  your  projects  for  the  future,  —  it 
does  not  exist  for  me ;  from  that  you  will  rightly  believe  that 
I  cannot  rouse  myself  to  foresee  or  fear  for  others.     In  gen- 


134  LETTERS   OF  [1774 

eral,  I  tliiiik  you  would  do  Itest  not  to  marry  ir:  the  provinces. 
That  would  be  a  way,  of  course,  to  settle  your  uncertainties, 
but  it  would  also  be  a  misfortune  to  deprive  yourself  of  the 
greatest  blessing,  which  is  hope.  Mon  ami,  I  cannot  con- 
ceive why  you  have  not  strength  enough  to  bear  ill-fortune. 
Paris  is  the  place  in  the  world  where  one  can  be  poor  with 
the  least  privations ;  none  but  fools  and  tiresome  people 
need  to  be  rich.  —  You  see  now  that  it  was  folly  to  think 
you  must  make  the  tour  c»f  the  world  iu  order  to  write  a 
good  work.  Begin  it  now ;  and  before  it  is  finished  you  may 
be  rich  euougli  to  travel.  In  short,  I  want  you  to  regard  the 
lack  of  fortune  as  a  contrariety,  not  a  misfortune.  Mon  ami, 
if  I  looked  down  from  tlie  moon  I  should  prefer  your  talent 
to  the  wealth  of  M.  Beaujon ;  I  should  better  like  the  love 
of  study  than  the  post  of  grand-equerry  of  France.  In 
other  words,  being  condemned  to  live,  and  not  being  able  to 
choose  the  life  of  a  worthy  Normandy  farmer,  I  should  ask 
to  have  the  mind  and  talent  of  M.  de  Guibert ;  but  I  should 
wish  to  be  inspired  to  make  more  use  of  them. 

What  you  tell  me  of  the  children  of  your  sister  is  full  of 
interest  and  feeling ;  but,  mon  ami,  here  you  are  again  tor- 
menting yourself  about  the  future.  They  are  well  at  present, 
those  children  ;  you  see  what  they  have  lost,  and  that  worries 
you.  The  future  of  the  little  boy  is  less  embarrassing ;  you 
know  betjter  than  I  that  the  education  of  a  provincial  college 
is  just  as  good  and  just  as  bad  as  that  of  a  college  in  Paris ; 
and  then,  mon  ami,  if  he  enters  a  regiment  at  sixteen  it  is 
all  the  same  whether  he  has  been  brought  up  in  Bordeaux 
or  in  Paris.  What  false  ideas  we  have  on  the  first  interest 
of  life  —  happiness  !  Ah  !  good  God  !  is  it  in  sharpening  the 
mind,  is  it  in  widening  ideas,  that  the  happiness  of  individu- 
als is  made  ?  —  though  both  are  useful  in  general.  But  why 
must  your  nephew  be  made  happy  in  your  way  ?  —  I  feel 


1774]  MLLE.   DE   LESFINASSE.  135 

that  I  am  replying  \evj  stiffly,  very  stupidly,  to  the  details 
into  which  your  friendship  and  confidence  made  you  enter ; 
but  what  can  I  do  ?  Nothing  comes  to  me ;  my  soul  is  a 
desert,  my  head  as  empty  as  a  lantern.  All  that  I  say,  all 
that  I  hear,  is  utterly  indifferent  to  me ;  I  can  say  to-day,  like 
the  man  who  was  blamed  ^for  not  killing  himself,  since  he 
was  so  detached  from  life,  "  I  do  not  kill  myself  because  it 
is  all  the  same  to  me  whether  I  live  or  die."  That  is  not 
quite  true  with  me,  however,  for  I  suffer,  and  death  would  be 
a  relief ;  but  I  have  no  energ}\ 

September  20,  1774.    6  o'clock  in  the  morning. 

To  compensate  for  the  flatness  and  dryness  of  my  letter  of 
last  night,  it  occurs  to  me  to  send  you  two  little  folios  of  Vol- 
taire and  the  "  Eulogy  on  La  Fontaine,"  which  I  have  read  with 
as  much  pleasure  as  I  should  have  had  in  listening  to  them. 
Notice  that  I  do  not  praise  to  exaggeration,  therefore  you  are 
free  to  have  your  own  opinion  and  to  think  detestable  what 
I  thought  good.  An  edict  is  to  be  issued  within  a  few  days 
on  the  domestic  commerce  in  grains  ;  it  will  state  its  causes : 
that  is  a  new  system,  and  it  seems  to  me  it  will  certainly 
please  the  multitude ;  but  knaves  and  partisans  will  still 
find  something  to  criticise. 

It  was  said  yesterday  that  the  archbishopric  of  Cambrai 
would  be  given  to  Cardinal  de  Bernis  and  that  the  Due 
de  La  Kochefoucauld  would  go  as  ambassador  to  Eome. 
Perhaps  the  Abb^  de  V^ry  may  be  first  appointed,  but 
only  to  get  him  made  a  cardinal  and  prepare  the  way  for 
M.  de  La  Eochefoucauld ;  that  was  the  talk  of  yesterday 
at  my  fireside,  and  if  I  were  to  name  to  you  the  persons 
present  you  would  see  that  if  that  news  does  not  become 
true,  it  was  at  least  not  absurd.  The  Chevalier  de  Chas- 
tellux,  whom  I  often  see,  but  always  on  the  run,  has  no 


136  LETTERS  OF  [1774 

time  to  ask  me  news  of  you ;  he  is  busier,  more  dissipated, 
more  in  tlic  suite  of  all  the  princes  than  ever.  Today  he 
is  in  the  country ;  he  will  hear  news  of  you  there ;  with 
tact  and  knowledge  of  the  ways  of  the  world  a  man  is 
always  in  the  tone  and  thought  of  those  he  is  with. 

M.  d'Alembert  and  all  your  friends  speak  to  me  often  of 
you ;  they  address  themselves  to  me  to  liear  about  you  ;  but 
it  is  I  who  must  have  recourse  to  them  in  future,  must  I 
not  ?  Ah !  moti  Dicu  !  how  crazy  passions  are !  and  how 
stupid  1  For  the  last  fifteen  days  I  feel  the  greatest  horror 
at  them.  But  I  must  also  be  just  and  admit  that  in  adoring 
calmness  and  reason  I  scarcely  exist ;  I  have  strength  to  feel 
only  my  utter  annihilation :  my  body,  my  soul,  my  head,  all 
myself  is  in  a  state  of  exhaustion  ;  and  that  state  is  not  very 
pamful,  although  it  is  new  to  me. 

Good-night,  mo9i  ami;  for  though  it  is  morning  1  have  not 
yet  slept.  No  one,  I  think,  has  thought  of  writing  about 
sleep,  about  its  influence  on  the  mind  and  on  the  passions. 
Those  who  study  nature  ought  not  to  neglect  that  interesting 
part  of  the  life  of  the  mihappy.  Alas !  if  they  only  knew 
how  much  the  privation  of  sleep  can  add  to  other  woes  !  In 
approaching  those  who  suffer,  those  who  are  imhappy,  the 
first  question  asked  should  be, "  Do  you  sleep  ?  "  the  second, 
"  How  old  are  you  ? " 

Begun  Thursday,  September  22,  1774. 

Mon  ami,  if  I  still  had  passion,  your  silence  would  kill 
me;  and  if  I-  had  only  vanity  it  would  wound  me  and  I 
should  hate  you  with  all  my  strength.  Well !  I  live,  and 
I  hate  you  no  longer.  But  I  shall  not  conceal  that 
I  see  with  grief,  though  without  astonishment,  that  it  was 
my  impulsion  that  led  you  on  —  you  were  forced  to  answer 
me.  You  do  not  know  what  to  say  to  me  now,  when  you  be- 
lieve that  my  feeling  has  ceased;  you  feel  no  regret,  and  you 


1774]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  137 

■  find  nothing  in  you  which  gives  you  the  right  to  reclaim  what 
you  have  lost.  Well,  mon  ami,  I  am  sufficiently  calm  to  be 
just ;  I  approve  of  your  conduct,  though  it  grieves  me ;  I  es- 
teem you  for  allowing  nothing  to  take  the  place  of  truth. 
And,  in  fact,  of  what  could  you  complain  ?  I  have  relieved 
you ;  it  is  dreadful  to  be  the  object  of  a  feeling  we  do  not 
share;  we  suffer,  and  we  make  the  other  suffer:  to  love  and 
to  be  loved  is  the  happiness  of  heaven ;  when  one  has 
known  it  and  lost  it,  what  remains  but  to  die  ? 

There  are  two  things  in  this  life  that  do  not  admit  of  medi- 
ocrity —  poesy  and  .  .  .  But  I  do  not  deceive  myself ;  the 
feeling  that  I  had  for  you  was  not  perfect.  First,  it  caused 
me  to  blame  myself,  —  it  cost  me  remorse ;  and  then  —  I 
know  not  if  it  was  the  trouble  in  my  conscience  that  over- 
threw my  soul  and  changed,  absolutely,  my  manner 
of  being  and  of  loving  —  I  was  ceaselessly  agitated  by 
feelings  I  condemned;  I  felt  jealousy,  disquietude,  dis- 
trust ;  I  blamed  you  incessantly ;  I  imposed  a  law  upon 
myself  to  make  no  complaint ;  but  that  coercion  was 
dreadful  to  me ;  in  sliort,  that  way  of  loving  was  so 
foreign  to  my  soul  that  it  became  a  torture.  Mo7i  ami, 
I  loved  you  too  much,  and  not  enough.  Thus  we  have 
both  gained  by  the  change  that  has  been  wrought  in 
me,  and  which  was  neither  your  work  nor  mine.  I  saw 
clear  for  a  moment,  and  in  less  than  half  an  hour  I  felt 
the  end  of  pain,  I  became  extinct,  and  then  I  resuscitated. 
WTiat  is  inconceivable  is  that  on  coming  to  myself,  I 
found  only  M.  de  Mora  ...  the  faintness  that  came 
u]X)n  my  brain  had  obliterated  the  traces  of  all  else.  You, 
mon  ami,  who,  fifteen  minutes  earlier  filled  all  my  thoughts, 
never  once  re-entered  my  mind  for  twenty-four  hours ;  and 
then  I  saw  that  my  sentiment  was  only  a  memory. 

I   remained    thus    several   days   without   recovering    the 


138  LETTERS   OF  [1774 

strengtli  Lo  suffer  or  Lo  love,  until  at  last  I  regained  the 
degiee  oi"  reason  which  enables  us  to  estimate  all  things 
at  nearly  their  true  value,  and  made  me  feel  that,  if  1  could 
hope  for  no  pleasuie,  there  was  little  misfortune  left  for  me 
to  fear.  1  liuve  recovered  calmness;  but  1  do  not  deceive 
myself:  it  is  the  calm  of  death;  and  before  long,  if  I  live, 
I  can  say,  like  that  man  who  lived  alone  for  thirty  years  and 
had  never  read  anything  but  Plutarch,  when  they  asked  him 
how  he  felt,  "  Almost  as  happy  as  if  I  were  dead.  "  Alon 
anil,  that  is  my  state  of  mind  ;  nothing  that  I  see,  that  I  hear, 
nothing  that  I  do  or  have  to  do,  can  rouse  my  soul  to  an  emo- 
tion of  interest ;  that  manner  of  existing  has  hitlierto  been  un- 
known to  me.  There  is  but  one  thing  in  the  world  that  does 
me  good ;  it  is  music :  but  it  is  a  good  which  others  would 
call  pain.  I  long  to  hear  a  dozen  times  a  day  that  air  which 
rends  me,  and  puts  me  in  jiossession  of  all  that  I  mourn : 
J'ai  ])erdu  mo/i  Eurydice  .  .  . 

I  go  constantly  to  the  "  Orpheus  and  Eurydice  "  [Gluck's 
opera], and  I  am  there  alone.  Last  Tuesday  I  told  my  friends 
that  I  intended  to  pay  visits,  but  I  shut  myself  up  in  a  box. 
On  returning  home  that  evening  I  found  a  note  from  the 
Comte  de  Crillon  telling  me  that  he  had  had  a  letter  from 
you  the  evening  before.  I  waited  till  the  next  day  and 
fortunately  found  him  at  Mme.  Geoffrin's.  He  read  me 
your  letter ;  you  spoke  of  me,  and  did  so  three  times ;  that 
was  kind,  but  very  much  colder  than  if  you  had  not  named 
me  at  all.  However,  won  ami,  I  am  content ;  it  is  just 
what  I  wish  of  you.  Mon  Dieu  !  why  should  I  be  hard  to 
satisfy  —  I,  who  can  no  longer  love  except  with  a  reason- 
ableness and  a  moderation  hitherto  unknown  to  me  ? 

I  have  seen  M.  Turgot  and  spoken  to  him  about  what  you 
fear  as  to  the  domains.  He  told  me  that  no  course  had  been 
decided    on  as  yet ;   that  M.  de    Beaumont,  intendant    of 


1774]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  139 

finances,  was  engaged  on  the  matter,  and  that  meanwhile  the 
companies  created  by  the  Abb^  TeiTai  were  forbidden  to  act. 
M.  Turgot  added  that  as  soon  as  he  was  informed  by  M.  de 
Beaumont,  he  would  tell  me  if  anything  was  planned  or 
decided  in  relation  to  the  domains ;  but  he  could  now  say,  in 
general,  that  the  greatest  respect  would  be  shown  to  property. 
I  did  not  stop  there :  I  spoke  of  your  affair  to  M.  de  Vaines, 
and  he  answered  me  clearly  :  "  Tell  him  to  be  easy ;  the  Abbe 
Terrai's  project  will  never  be  carried  out  l»y  M.  Turgot ;  I 
answer  for  that."  There,  inoji  ami,  are  the  answers  of  two 
men  which  ought  to  reassure  you ;  though  tlicy  are  not  alike, 
they  mean,  it  seems  to  me,  the  same  thing.  I  send  you  the 
verdict  of  wliich  I  have  already  told  you  ;  I  add  to  it  a  letter 
from  M.  de  Condorcet,  which  I  think  so  good  that  I  have  had 
it  copied.  Mon  ami,  do  not  thank  me  for  the  pains  I  have 
taken  to  send  you  what  pleases  me :  it  is  not  done  for  your 
sake  ;  it  is  to  hear  you  spoken  of ;  for  I  still  retain  much  lik- 
ing for  your  mind,  which  is  excellent  and  very  natural. 
Adieu. 

Friday,  September  23,  1774. 
Mon  ami,  I  make  you  a  victim ;  I  write  to  you  so  nuich 
that  I  oppress  you.  It  is  the  only  occupation  that  makes  me 
believe  I  still  live ;  and,  though  I  think  that  to  be  quite  dead 
is  a  better  state,  I  find,  while  suffering,  a  certain  sweetness  in 
turning  toward  you.  If  you  do  not  imderstand  me  you  will 
hear  me  at  any  rate,  and  answer  me,  for  it  is  very  sad  to 
have  no  letters  from  you.  Here  are  two  couriers  missed, 
Monday  and  Wednesday,  and  it  is  I  who  have  done  myself 
that  harm ;  for,  without  loving  me,  you  would  certainly  have 
continued  to  write  to  me  punctually.  Ah  !  good  God !  to 
what  excess  I  have  been  carried  !  I  loved  you  and  hated  you 
with  fury.  It  was  only  the  last  transport  of  a  soul  about  to 
vanish  forever  —  and  in  truth  I  have  not  felt  it  since ;  I  do 


140  LETTKKS   OF  [1774 

iKil  know  what  has  become  of  it.  I  thought  y<ju  wcjuld  have 
written  ou  Wednesday  to  M.  d'Aleinheit ;  uiy  first  words  on 
coining  home  that  evening  were  to  ask  him  if  he  had  had  a 
letter ;  he  said  he  did  not  know  —  for  he  has  the  excellent 
habit  of  not  opening  his  letters  till  the  next  morning.  I  soon 
knew  that  he  had  received  none  from  you,  and  my  suffering 
increased  so  much  that  I  w^as  obliged  to  take  an  anodyne,  and 
then,  by  dint  of  reason  and  arguments,  I  came,  not  to  care 
no  longer,  luil,  at  least,  to  cease  to  torture  myself. 

You  know  that  M.  de  Muy,  nnnister  of  war,  is  to  marry  in 
a  few  days  M me.  de  Saint-Dlancard,  a  (lerman  chanoinesse, 
whom  you  may  have  known  during  the  late  war.  They  say 
she  is  amiable,  has  been  pretty,  and  loves  M.  de  Muy.  This 
marriage  gives  me  a  very  good  opinion  of  him ;  it  is  an 
excellent  employment  of  his  wealth.  The  Comte  de  Broglie 
is  at  liufl'ec;  is  that  very  far  from  Montauban  ?  I  should  be 
sorry  to  have  you  go  there  ;  he  would  agitate  your  mind  and 
give  you  no  help  in  bringing  to  good  conclusion  the  projects 
of  fortune  he  would  put  into  your  head.  Man  ami,  you 
should  fix  your  thoughts,  you  ought  to  see  much  of  M.  de 
Muy.  He  must  know  you,  and  if  he  has  intelligence  he  will 
seek  the  aid  of  your  ideas  and  your  talents.  Above  all,  bring 
back  with  you  your  father ;  his  i)resence  will  be  useful  to  you, 
and  besides,  if  his  fortune  is  capable  of  amelioration  he  ought 
to  show  himself ;  no  one  seeks  the  merit  that  conceals  itself. 

I  strongly  applaud  the  horror  you  feel  at  provincial  life ; 
but  the  country  is  not  provincial ;  I  would  rather  live  in  a 
village  among  the  peasantry  than  in  a  town  like  Montauban 
and  the  good  company  of  that  society.  But,  moii  Dieu  !  in 
Paris  how  many  provincial  towns  there  are  !  how  man}^  fools  1 
how  many  sham  "  importants."  Good  is  so  rare  everywhere 
that  I  am  not  sure  if  it  is  not  a  great  misfortune  to  have  known 
it,  and  to  have  made  it  one's  "  daily  bread." 


1774]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  141 

We  may  say  of  the  habit  of  living  with  persons  of  intellect 
and  high  merit  what  ^L  de  La  Rochefoucauld  said  of  the  Court: 
"  It  does  not  make  us  happy,  but  it  prevents  us  from  finding 
happiness  elsewhere  ; "  that  is  precisely  what  I  feel  now  every 
time  I  find  myself  in  society. 

My  friend,  guess  if  you  can  —  but  I  must  tell  you  it  is  no 
happiuess,  no  pleasure,  not  even  a  consolation  to  be  loved, 
even  deeply  loved  by  any  one  who  has"  veiy  little  mind.  Ah  ! 
how  I  hate  uiyself  for  not  being  able  to  love  that  which  is 
excellent  1  how  difficult  to  please  1  have  grown  '  But  is  it 
my  fault  i  see  what  an  education  I  have  received.  Mme.  du 
Deffaud  (because  for  intellect  she  must  be  cited)  President 
Ht^uault,  the  Abb6  Bon,  the  Archbishop  of  Toulouse,  the  Arch- 
bishop of  Abe,  M.  Turgot,  M.  dAlembert,  the  Abb^  de  Bois- 
mont,  M.  de  Mora,  —  those  were  the  persons  who  taught  me  to 
think  and  speak,  and  who  deigned  to  consider  me  as  some- 
thiny :  after  tbat,  how  could  I  turn  my  thoughts  to  being 
l(jved  by  ...  ?  But,  mon  ami,  do  you  think  people  can 
love  when  they  have  little  or  no  mind  ?  I  know  very  well 
that  you  think  me  crazy  or  imbecile  ;  but  what  does  that 
matter  ?  1  had  it  on  my  heart  to  say  to  }ou  what  I  have  just 
said.  Good-night :  I  keep  a  little  place  in  my  letter  to  tell 
you  to-morrow  that  I  have  no  news  from  you.  Mon  ami, 
forgive  me,  but  that  seems  impossible. 

Saturday,  after  post  time. 
You  are  ill,  you  have  fever !  Ah  !  mon  ami,  it  is  not  my 
interest  that  this  news  awakens ;  it  is  my  terror  —  I  think 
that  I  bring  evil  to  all  I  love.  Oh !  mow  Dieu  !  if  I  must 
fear  again,  if  I  must  again  feel  the  ten-ors  and  the  despair 
that  consumed  two  years  of  my  life,  why  did  you  then  pre- 
vent me  from  dying  ?  You  did  not  love  me,  but  you  chained 
me !     If  on  Monday  I  do  not  hear  from  you  .  .  . 


142  LETTERS   OF  [1774 

Monday,  Scptenilior  20,  1774. 

Mon  ami,  I  desired  all  day  yesterday  to  write  to  you,  but 
strength  failed  me.  I  was  in  a  state  of  suffering  which  has 
taken  from  me  the  power  to  speak  and  act.  I  cannot  eat ; 
the  words  food  and  'pciin  are  synonymous  to  me  now.  —  But 
it  is  of  you  I  wish  to  speak,  it  is  with  you  that  my  mind  is 
occupied,  for  you  that  I  am  anxious.  I  see  you  ill ;  I  reproach 
myself  for  having  caused  you  some  moments  of  sadness ; 
without  flattering  myself  that  you  attach  much  intei-est 
either  to  my  feelings  or  to  me,  I  know  that  I  have  troubled 
your  peace  of  mind,  and  I  am  greatly  distressed.  Mon  ami, 
it  is  you  who  taught  me  to  grieve  and  toiture  that  which  1 
love.  Ah !  I  have  been  cruelly  jninished  for  it !  and  if 
heaven  reserves  for  me  .  .  .  Ah !  my  blood  freezes,  I  will 
sooner  die.  That  tliought  is  more  dreadful  than  the  most 
violent  death  could  ever  be.  You  say  you  wish  never  to 
wake,  and  it  is  to  me  that  you  confide  your  disgust  of  life. 
How  different  were  the  words  that  he  wrote  me  when  dying : 
"  I  was  about  to  see  you  again,  and  I  must  die  !  what  a  dread- 
ful fate !  but  you  have  loved  me,  and  you  fill  me  still  with 
tender  feeling.     I  die  for  you  ..." 

Mon  ami,  I  cannot  transcribe  those  words  without  bursting 
into  tears ;  the  feeling  that  dictated  them  was  the  tenderest 
and  most  impassioned  that  ever  was ;  misfortune,  absence, 
illness,  nothing  could  shake  or  chill  that  soul  of  fire.  Ah ! 
I  thought  to  die  j-esterday  on  reading  a  letter  from  M.  de 
Fuentfes  [M.  de  Mora's  father].  He  tells  me  that  his  sorrow 
has  not  allowed  him  as  yet  to  look  at  anything  that  was 
dear  to  his  son ;  that  he  will  always  preserve  for  me  the 
warmest  and  tenderest  gratitude  for  the  proofs  of  affection 
which  I  have  at  all  times  given  to  M.  de  Mora ;  that  I  have 
supported  him  under  his  affliction,  and  that  he  would  gladly 
return  at  the  cost  of  his  life  all  that  his  son  owed  to  me. 


1774]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  143 

He  adds  that  he  ventures  m  his  name,  the  name  of  the  sou 
he  mourns,  to  ask  me  for  a  favour,  namely :  to  induce  M. 
d'Alembert,  who  was  once  his  friend,  to  write  a  funereal 
eulogy  in  honour  of  his  son's  memory,  which  would  be  the 
consolation  of  his  few  remaining  years,  and  which  he  could 
read  to  his  family  as  an  honourable  record  and  a  source  of 
encouragement  in  virtue  to  his  other  children.  And  this 
touching  entreaty  ends  in  tears.  Ah !  how  many  it  made 
me  shed.  I  do  not  fear  to  weary  you  with  a  narrative 
which  would  not  be  cold  in  a  novel.  Mon  Dieu  !  I  adore  M. 
de  Fuentfes ;  he  was  worthy  of  having  such  a  son.  What  a 
loss  for  him  and  for  all  who  loved  that  son  !  and  yet  we  live  ! 
His  father,  his  sister,  and  I,  we  would  have  been  too  fortu- 
nate had  we  died  at  the  moment  he  was  taken  from  us.  Ah  ! 
my  friend,  have  pity  for  me !  You  alone  in  the  world  can 
bring  some  sentiments  of  comfort  and  consolation  to  a  soul 
that  is  mortally  wounded. 

I  feel  that  your  presence  would  have  lightened  the  load 
with  which  I  am  crushed ;  now  that  I  see  you  no  longer  I 
am  lost  in  the  wilderness ;  my  soul  is  driven  to  excesses,  as 
you  saw  by  the  violence  I  put  into  my  conduct  to  you.  Mon 
ami,  replace  me  in  the  right  way.  Be  my  guide,  if  you  wish 
me  to  live.  Do  not  abandon  me.  I  dare  not  say  to  you,  T  love 
you ;  I  know  not  if  I  do.  Judge  me  in  the  trouble  in  which 
I  live.  You  know  me  better  than  I  know  myself.  I  know 
not  whether  it  is  you  or  death  that  I  implore  :  I  have  need 
of  being  succoui;ed,  of  being  delivered  from  the  misery  that  is 
killing  me. — Mon  ami,  if  I  do  not  have  news  from  you  to-day, 
or  at  least  hear  some,  I  know  not  how  I  can  wait  till  Wednes- 
day. Mon  Dieu  !  can  you  conceive,  can  you  attain  to  an 
idea  of  what  I  feel,  of  all  I  suffer  ?  Could  any  one  believe 
that  I  ever  knew  calmness  ?  Man  ami,  it  is  true  that  I  lived 
for  twenty-four  hours  apart  from  all  thought  of  you ;  after 


144  LETTERS   OF  [1774 

which  I  was  many  da^s  in  total  apathy  ;  I  lived,  but  it  seemed 
to  me  I  was  beside  my  «nvn  sell'.  1  remembered  having  had 
a  sold  that  loved  you ;  I  saw  it  afar,  Ijut  it  inspired  me  no 
longer.  Alas !  if  you  are  as  indil'l'erent  as  that  "  unfortu- 
nate being  who  loves  nothing,"  you  will  not  understand  me; 
if  this  language  does  not  go  to  your  soul  that  soul  is  deadly 
cold ;  it  will  then  be  for  me  to  pity  y(ju  f(jr  l\ut  weariness  I 
have  caused  you. 

Good-bye;  I  will  not  close  my  letter  luitil  after  the  jxjst- 
man  comes.  Mo/i  ami,  do  not  take  to<j  iiniili  (juinine;  it 
mjures  the  chest,  and  when  one  is  cured  too  quickly  of  a 
fever,  obstructions  nearly  always  appear  elsewhere ;  remem- 
ber that  you  are  not  free  to  neglect  your  health ;  my  peace, 
nf}-  life  ilcpend  u})on  it.  Mon  «w/,  tell  me  if  I  love  you; 
you  ought  to  know  —  1,1  know  myself  no  longer ;  for  exam- 
ple, at  this  moment  I  feel  that  I  passionately  long  for  news 
of  you,  but  I  feel  also,  in  a  most  urgent  manner  that  I  need 
to  die.  1  suffer  from  head  to  foot.  My  soul  is  uplifted  and 
my  body  faints;  from  this  lack  of  harmony  misery  results, 
and  well-nigh  madness  —  But  I  must  stop.  Adieu ;  would 
that  I  could  go  to  meet  the  postman. 

4  o'clock.  The  postman  has  arrived.  M.  d'Alembert  has 
no  letter,  although  the  courier  from  jMontauban  comes  on 
Mondays,  Wednesdays,  and  Saturdays.  3fo)i  ami,  I  am  very 
unhappy ;  either  you  are  very  ill,  or  }-ou  are  very  cruel  to 
leave  me  in  such  anxiety.  You  know  if  my  health,  my  con- 
dition, can  bear  this  increase  of  troul)le  and  pain.  Ah  !  mon 
DieiL !  what  shall  I  do,  what  will  become  of  me  till  Wednes- 
day !     I  will  send  to  the  Chevalier  d'Aguesseau- 

Friday,  in  the  evening,  September  30,  1774. 
Man  ami,  you  kept  me  from  dying,  yet  you  kill  me  by 
leaving  me  in  a  state  of  anxiety  which  convulses  my  soul. 


1774]  MLLE.   DE  LESPINASSE.  145 

I  have  no  news  of  you ;  nor  lias  the  Chevalier  d'Aguesseau ; 
and  he  has  been  to  all  the  persons  who  might,  perhaps,  have 
had  some.  Ah  !  mon  Dicu  !  how  little  I  knew  myself  !  how 
mistaken  I  was  when  I  told  you  that  my  soul  was  forever 
closed  to  happiness,  to  pleasure;  that  it  could  now  know 
nothing  but  dull  misery,  and  that  I  had  no  longer  anything  to 
fear.  Alas !  I  cannot  breathe  since  Wednesday.  I  see  you 
ill;  I  have  an  inward  teiTor  that  alarms  me.  What  a  dread- 
ful state  of  things  you  are  making  me  endure !  —  these 
Wednesdays,  these  Saturdays,  horrible  days  which  have 
made  the  hope  and  the  despan  of  my  life  for  two  consec- 
utive years  ! 

But  can  you  be  ill  enougli  to  have  forgotten  that  }'ou  are 
loved  witli  passion  ;  and  if  }<ju  ha\'e  remembered  it  why 
have  you  failed  to  write  to  me  ?  Surely  you  knew  it  was 
delivering  my  soul  to  mortal  agony  to  thus  make  me  fear  for 
you.  Man  ami,  if  you  could  have  spared  me  wliat  I  suffer, 
you  are  very  guilty  ;  and  it  seems  to  me  that  such  a  wrong 
ought  ninv  to  cure  me.  But  oh !  my  God !  are  we  free  ? 
Can  I  calm  and  chill  myself  according  to  my  will,  and  ac- 
cording perhaps  to  }'ours  ?  Ah  !  I  can  only  love  you  and 
suffer;  that  is  the  euKAion,  the  sentiment  of  my  heart;  I  can 
neither  stop  it  nor  excite  it,  but  I  long  to  die.  1  have 
thoughts  which  are  an  active  poison ;  but  it  is  not  rapid 
enough.  If  I  hear  to-morrow  that  j'ou  are  ill,  but  receive  no 
letter,  I  shall  have  lived  too  long.  No,  it  is  impossible,  you 
have  surely  thought  of  me  ;  I  wait  therefore,  but  in  trem- 
bling and  with  an  impatience  never  felt  except  by  a  soul  as 
impassioned  as  it -is  unhappy.  Ah  !  Diderot  was  right:  none 
but  the  unhappy  know  how  to  love.  But,  mon  ami,  this  will 
not  soothe  you  if  }ou  suffer ;  and  if  yon  are  calm  you  will 
not  value  it.  Well !  I  love  you,  and  1  do  not  need  your  feel- 
ing for  my  heart  to  give  itself,  to  abandon  itself  to  you. 

10 


146  LETTEftS   OF  [1774 

All  tliJit  the  Al)li(i  Terrai  did,  or  ])kuined  to  do  iu  the  mat- 
ter of  the  domains  is  null  and  vnid  ;  all  has  been  destroyed, 
rescinded,  nullitied ;  you  may  be  as  easy  about  your  father's 
property  as  you  were  ten  years  ago.  M.  Turgot  assured  me 
of  this  yesterday ;  lie  asked  me  for  news  of  you,  and  re- 
proached himself  for  not  having  yet  had  a  moment  iu  which 
to  answer  persons  to  whom  he  could  not  bring  himself  to 
write  office  letters.  M.  de  Vaines  charged  me  to  recall  him 
to  your  recollection ;  he  is  absolutely  crushed  by  his  work  ; 
they  have  so  much  to  rei)air  and  to  foresee  that  they  have 
not  a  moment  in  which  to  breathe.  The  Abb^  TeiTai  is  or- 
dered to  replace  in  the  royal  treasury  the  hundred  thousand 
crowns  he  had  taken  by  anticipation  on  the  leasing  (A  farms ; 
M.  Turgot  has  declared  that  he  does  not  wish  for  the  fifty 
thousand  francs  which  come  to  him  yearly,  by  law,  from 
those  leases ;  he  has  reduced  himself  in  the  same  way  on  all 
sides,  which  gives  him  courage  to  make  reforms  of  the  same 
kind  in  the  offices  dependent  on  him.  He  is  an  excellent 
man ;  and  if  he  can  remain  in  office  he  will  become  the  idol 
of  the  nation  :  he  is  fanatical  for  the  public  good,  and  he 
spends  all  his  strength  for  it. 

Saturda_v,  after  the  postman. 

I  was  interrupted.  I  have  received  your  letter,  mon  ami  ; 
you  are  well ;  that  is  enough  to  live  for.  Alas  1  I  know  not 
how  to  answer  you.  The  shocks  that  you  give  vaj  soul  are 
too  violent  for  words.  Mon  ami,  all  that  I  can  say  to  you  is 
that  your  letter  is  charming  through  the  tone  of  tenderness 
and  confidence  which  reigns  there ;  it  is  honourable  and 
true  as  your  own  soul;  and  though  it  does"not  answer  mine 
on  all  points,  that  is  not  your  fault,  and  I  do  not  complain 
of  it.  Alas,  no  1  I  am  satisfied  with  you ;  but  I  say  with 
Ph^dre,  "  I  have  taken  to  life  a  hatred,  and  to  my  love  a 
horror." 


1774]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  147 

Oh  '  if  you  knew  how  I  detest  myself,  and  what  reason  I 
have  to  do  so !  Truth  is  in  my  heart,  and  I  must  ever  re- 
proach myself  for  usurping  the  esteem  and  the  sentiments 
that  are  given  to  me.  During  this  late  time  I  fell  into  a 
state  that  alarmed  my  friends ;  they  ascribed  it  to  my  sense 
of  the  loss  that  I  have  met  with,  and  thus  they  honoured  it ; 
whereas,  the  alarm  you  caused  me  diverted  my  mind  from 
those  regi-ets  that  had  hitherto  rent  my  soul.  So,  though 
dying  of  grief,  I  am  unworthy  of  the  sentiments  I  inspire. 
Do  you  conceive  the  full  horror  of  my  situation  ?  Do  you 
believe  that  it  is  in  human  nature  to  bear  it  long  ?  Where 
shall  I  find  courage  against  such  sorrow  ?  Who  will  share 
it  with  me  ?  Who  can  have  compassion  upon  so  much 
misery  ?  Well !  I  say  to  my  heart  —  and  I  feel  it,  I  do  not 
deceive  myself — if  AI.  de  Mora  could  live  again  he  would 
understand  me,  he  would  love  me,  and  I  should  have  no 
more  remorse,  no  more  suffering.  Ah  !  that  feeling  ought  to 
show  you  what  T  have  lost !  Mon  ami,  why  have  you  not 
written  to  me  by  the  last  two  couriers  ?  AMiy  do  you  not 
answer  me  and  say,  "  I  reply  to  your  letter  of  such  a  date  "  ? 
We  ought  to  come  to  some  agreement ;  a  troubled  head 
needs  to  be  spared.  Mon  ami,  consider  me  as  one  attacked 
by  mortal  illness  ;  and  give  me  the  cares,  the  indulgence,  we 
have  for  the  dying ;  that  will  have  no  harmful  consequences 
to  your  happiness.  I  bind  myself  by  all  that  I  hold  most 
sacred,  by  the  memory  of  M.  de  Mora,  never  to  trouble  you, 
to  exact  nothing  from  you ;  and  after  this  letter  of  yours, 
which  is  such  that  my  heart  thanks  you  for  it,  you  could 
never  deceive  me,  I  could  never  complain ;  and  if  I  did  show 
grief,  you  would  be  feeling  enough  to  hear  me  without  im- 
patience. 

Adieu,  I  do  not  answer  your  letter ;  in  the  confusion  of 
my  thoughts,  in  the  trouble  I  am  in,  I  feel  but  one  thing :  I 


148  LETTERS  OF  [1774 

live  and  I  have  lost  him  who  loved  me.  Man  ami,  if  it  does 
not  constrain  you  too  much,  write  to  me  by  every  courier ;  I 
need  it. 

Monday,  October  3,  1774. 

Ah  !  mon  ami,  my  soul  is  sick,  I  have  no  words,  I  have 
only  cries.  I  have  read,  I  have  re-read,  I  shall  read  a  hundred 
times  your  letter.  Ah  !  my  friend,  what  blessings  and  what 
evils  united !  what  pleasure  mingled  with  tlie  ciuellest  bitter- 
ness !  The  reading  of  that  letter  increases  and  redoubles  the 
agitations  of  my  lieart;  I  can  no  longer  calm  myself.  You 
have  charmed  and  rent  my  soul  alternately ;  never  did  I  find 
you  more  lovable,  more  wortliy  of  being  loved,  and  never 
have  I  been  so  penetrated  with  deep  and  poignant  and  bitter 
sorrow  at  the  memory  of  M.  de  Mora.  Yes,  I  fainted  under 
it,  my  heart  was  oppressed,  I  wandered  in  my  thoughts  all 
night ;  so  violent  a  state  must  surely  annihilate  me,  or  drive 
me  mad.  Alas !  1  fear  neither :  if  I  loved  you  less,  if  my 
regrets  were  less  dear  to  me,  with  what  delirious  joy,  with 
what  transport  would  I  deliver  myself  from  the  life  that  is 
crushing  me  !  Ah !  never,  never  did  any  creature  survive 
such  torture,  such  despair. 

Mon  ami,  why  do  we  make  poison  of  the  only  good  that  is 
in  Nature,  the  only  good  that  men  have  not  been  able  to  spoil, 
nor  yet  corrupt  ?  The  whole  world  is  estimated  and  paid  by 
money ;  consideration,  happiness,  friendship,  even  virtue,  are 
bought,  paid,  and  rated  at  their  weight  in  gold ;  there  is  but 
one  thing  high  above  opinion,  one  thmg  remaining  spotless 
like  the  sun,  which  has  its  heat,  which  vi\'ifies  the  soul, 
enlightens  it,  sustains  it,  makes  it  stronger,  greater.  Ah ! 
mon  ami,  need  I  name  that  gift  of  Nature  ?  But  when  it 
does  not  make  the  happiness  of  the  soul  it  fills,  we  must  die 
—  oh,  yes  !  die  !  I  needed  that,  I  yielded  to  it ;  but  you  were 
cruel !     Ah !  what  have  you  done  with  the  life  you  saved  ? 


1774]  MLLE.  DE  LESPINASSE.  149 

Filled  it  with  trouble  and  tears  !  added  to  a  frightful  misfor- 
tune the  torture  of  remorse !  made  me  detest  every  instant 
of  my  life !  and  yet  you  have  bound  me  to  it  by  an  interest 
that  consumes  my  heart  and  which,  twenty  times  a  day,  pre- 
sents itself  to  my  thoughts  as  a  crime  !  Ah  !  mon  Dieu  !  I 
am  guilty,  yet  heaven  is  witness  that  nothing  was  dearer  to 
my  heart  than  virtue  —  and  to  say  that  it  was  not  you  who 
led  me  astray  !  What  ?  you  believe  that  it  was  I  alone  who 
cast  myself  into  that  abyss  ?  I  am  not  to  impute  to  you 
either  my  faults  or  my  misfortunes  ?  Oh  !  1  wanted  to  expi- 
ate them,  I  saw  the  termination  of  my  woe  ;  in  hating  you  I 
became  stronger  than  death.  By  what  fatality,  and  why  have 
I  returned  to  you  ?  Why  did  the  fear  of  your  illness  thus  ener- 
vate my  soul  ?  Why  do  you  rend  me  and  comfort  me  at  the 
same  moment  ?  Why  this  fatal  mixture  of  pleasure  and  pain, 
of  balm  and  poison  ? 

All  this  acts  with  too  much  violence  on  a  soul  that  passion 
and  misfortune  have  overwrought ;  all  this  is  completing  the 
destruction  of  a  body  exhausted  by  illness  and  loss  of  sleep. 
Alas  !  I  said  to  you,  in  the  extremity  of  my  trouble,  "  I  know 
not  if  it  be  you  or  death  that  I  implore  ;  "  it  is  by  you,  or  by 
death  tliat  I  must  be  relieved,  or  cured  forever  —  all  the 
world,  all  Nature  can  do  nothing  for  me. 

Alas !  does  there  remain  to  me  one  prayer,  one  desire,  one 
regret,  one  thought  of  which  you  and  ]\1.  de  j\Iora  are  not  the 
object  ?  Mon  ami,  I  thought  my  soul  extinct ;  I  told  you  this 
and  I  found  sweetness  in  such  repose.  But  ah,  good  God ! 
how  fugitive  that  feeling  was  !  it  was  only  the  effect  of  opium 
prolonged.  Well !  I  will  recover  my  reason  or  I  shall  lose 
it  wholly.  But  tell  me,  how  is  it  possible  that  I  have 
not  yet  spoken  to  you  of  yourself,  that  I  have  not  said 
how  I  fear  a  return  of  your  fever ;  and  that  I  hope  for 
news  to-day  as  the  post  is  not  in  ?     Adieu,  mon  ami ;  your 


150  LETTERS   OF  [1774 

gentleness,  your  truth  have  filled  my  heart  with  tenderness 
and  sensibility. 

Monday  evening. 

I  have  a  line  from  you  and  (jnly  a  line ;  but  it  tells  me  that 
you  are  without  fever,  and  thus  it  lias  trauijuillized  me.  But 
you  are  anxious  about  ycjur  sister ;  and  so  am  I,  for  I  am  so 
near  to  all  that  touches  you.  I,  too,  have  fever :  the  paroxysm 
of  suffering  last  night  lias  affected  my  blood  and  my  pulse ; 
but  do  not  be  uneasy,  death  never  comes  so  opportunely  ;  the 
unhappy  do  not  die,  and  they  are  too  feeble,  too  cowardly, 
when  they  love,  to  kill  themselves.  I  shall  live,  I  shall  suffer, 
I  shall  await  —  not  happines.s,  not  pleasure  —  what  ?  Mon 
ami,  it  is  to  you  I  speak ;  answer  me.  .  .  . 

Do  you  not  think  that  your  heedlessness  is  rather  danger- 
ous ?  You  write  to  me  and  do  not  seal  your  letter ;  I  send 
you  its  envelope  that  you  may  not  doubt  me.  The  Pope  ^  is 
dead  of  an  illness  that  arouses  very  frightful  suspicions. 
Good-night,  mon  ami.  My  head  is  heavj-^  and  I  feel  more  ill 
than  usual,  1  »ut  I  have  had  my  letter  from  you  :  that  is  the 
one  important  thing.  I  am  in  a  very'  singular  condition; 
for  the  last  twelve  hours  my  eyes  represent  to  me  but  one  and 
always  the  same  object,  whether  I  keep  them  open  or  shut ; 
that  object,  which  is  he  whose  memory  I  cherish  and  adore, 
fills  me  with  dread.  At  this  very  moment  he  is  there ;  what 
I  touch,  what  I  waite  is  not  more  present,  more  visible  ;  but 
why  should  I  fear  ?  why  this  trouble  ?  Ah !  if  it  only 
were  so !  .  .  . 

Wednesday,  October  5,  1774. 

Mon  ami,  I  have  no  letter  from  you;  I  expected  one. 
Alas  !    I  experience  that  the  soul  which  hopes  least  can  be 

1  Clement  XIV.,  Lorenzo  Ganganelli;  author  of  the  Bull  which  sup- 
pressed the  Order  of  the  Jesuits.  He  was  thought  to  have  been 
poisoned.  —  Fk.  Ed, 


1774]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  151 

disappointed.  Forgive  me :  the  need  that  I  have  of  you 
makes  me  expect  too  much ;  I  must  be  corrected  of  that 
error.  I  am  ill,  and  in  a  state  of  inexpressible  suffer- 
ing ;  all  kinds  of  nourishment  do  me  equal  harm.  My 
physician  concludes  that  some  obstruction  is  forming  in 
the  pylorus ;  that  strange  word  was  unknown  to  me ;  but 
it  is  torture  when  that  door  shuts.  1  am  taking  hemlock ; 
if  it  could  be  prepared  like  that  of  Socrates  1  should  take 
it  with  pleasure.  It  would  cure  me  of  the  slow  and  pain- 
ful malady  called  life. 

You  do  me  harm,  mon  ami  ;  you  render  death  a  necessity 
to  me,  and  you  hold  me  to  life.  AMiat  weakness !  what  in- 
consistency !  Yes,  I  judge  myself  rightly ;  but  I  languish, 
I  delay.  I  feel  that  there  will  come  a  day,  a  moment  when 
I  shall  bitterly  repent  having  delayed  so  long.  If  I  cast  my 
eyes  upon  the  past  I  see  that  I  should  have  been  too  fortu- 
nate if  the  end  of  my  life  had  come  on  Wednesday,  June  1 
[the  day  she  heard  of  M.  de  Mora's  death].  Mon  Dieu  !  what 
sorrow,  what  evils  I  should  then  have  escaped.  Yes,  I  shud- 
der in  thinking  that  I  can  blame  no  one  but  you  for  all  that 
I  have  suffered  since  that  fatal  day.  How  ill-inspired  you 
were  '  my  death  would  have  been  no  injury  to  you.  At  this 
moment  when  I  write  to  you,  you  would  not  remember  it ; 
whereas,  in  place  of  that  forgetfulness  which  would  have  left 
you  to  enjoy  your  repose  and  pleasiue,  I  burden  you  with  my 
woes,  I  make  the  whole  weight  of  my  life  weigh  upon  your 
heart.  Ah  !  I  know  well  that  susceptible,  strong,  and  virtu- 
ous heart;  it  would  be  capable  of  making  some  great  sac- 
rifice to  relieve  the  unhappy  soul,  but  it  is  out  of  your  power 
to  take  care  of  it,  soothe  it,  calm  it.  Whatever  is  consecutive 
is  to  you  impossible ;  your  heart  is  impassioned,  but  it  does 
not  know  tenderness.  Passion  only  works  spasmodically  ;  it 
has  actions,  emotions;  but  tenderness  gives  care,  it  helps, 


152  LETTEIIS  OF  [1774 

it  comforts,  it  would  have  written  l»y  every  courier,  because 
it  would  have  felt  tlie  needs  of  a  sullering  soul.  No,  these 
are  not  reproaclies,  they  would  be  useless  <jr  distressing. 
Ah !  how  grieved  1  should  be  to  give  you  an  instant's  pain. 
Mon  ami,  1  need  to  know  if  youi'  lever  has  n<jt  returned, 
and  if  ihat  of  your  sister  is  subdued.  In  writing  to  y(ni 
the  last  time  I  was  delirious,  1  thhik ;  I  had  a  Ijurning 
fever  all  niglit ;  it  has  left  me  imw,  and  in  leavhig  me  it 
has  effaced  that  image  that  liiil  all  tillier  objects  from 
jiiy  sight  ;  l)ul  1  do  ii<>t  knnw  why  it  liroiight  such  terror 
into  my  soul.  Ah!  if  I  could  buy  hack  his  life  for  a  single 
hour  there  is  no  pain  1  should  not  have  the  strength  to  bear; 
1  should  say  with  Zulime :  — 

"  Dk'iitli  aiitl  Ik'11  a])])ear  liefure  me  : 
Kaiiiiie  !  with  tianspoit  I  desci'iid  there  for  thee." 

But,  mon  ami,  I  did  not  mean  to  say  to  you  all  this.     I 
am  confused ;  1  cannot  continue.     Adieu. 

iSaturday,  midnight. 

First  of  all,  I  must  tell  you  that  your  ink  is  white  as  paper, 
and  to-day  it  has  reall>-  i>ut  me  out  of  patience.  I  had  or- 
dered your  letter  to  be  brought  to  me  at  M.  Turgot's,  where 
I  was  dining  with  twenty  persons.  It  was  given  to  me 
while  at  table ;  on  one  side  I  had  the  Archbishop  of  Aix,^ 
on  the  other,  that  inquisitive  Abb^  Morellet.  I  opened 
my  letter  under  the  table ;  I  could  scarcely  see  that  any 
black  was  on  the  white,  and  the  abbd  made  the  same  remark. 
Mme.  de  Boutilers,  who  was  on  the  other  side  of  the 
Archbishop  of  Aix,  asked  what  I  was  reading.  "  Remem- 
ber where  we  are,  and  you  will  know  what  it  is."  —  "A 
memorial,  no  doubt,  for  M.  Turgot  ?  "  —  "  Yes,  just  so,  ma- 
dame,  and  I  wi.sh  to  read  it  over  before  I  give  it  to  him." 


1774]  MLLE.    DE    LESPINASSE.  153 

Before  returning  to  the  salon  I  had  read  the  letter  through, 
and  I  am  now  going  to  reply  to  it  —  though  I  must  do 
it  hastily,  for  I  am  very  tued  with  the  great  exertions 
that  I  made  to-day.  I  have  seen  at  least  a  hundred  per- 
sons, and  as  your  letter  had  done  good  to  my  soul,  I  talked, 
I  forgot  I  was  dead,  and  I  have  really  extinguished  myself. 
The  truth  is  I  had  a  "  great  success  "  because  I  brought  out 
the  charms  and  the  intellects  of  the  persons  with  whom  I 
was;  and  it  is  to  you,  moii  ami,  that  they  owe  that  pastime, 
so  sweet  to  their  self-love.  As  for  mine,  it  is  not  intoxicated 
by  your  praises  ;  I  reply  to  y«»u,  like  Couci :  "  Love  me,  my 
prince,  and  praise  me  not." 

Mon  ami,  keep  youi-self  from  ever  again  having  the  kind- 
ness to  set  forth  my  blessings  and  display  my  gifts ;  never 
ilid  I  feel  myself  so  poor,  so  ruined,  so  poverty-stricken;  in 
estimating  what  I  have,  in  making  me  see  my  resources,  you 
only  sliKW  me  that  all  is  lost,  (^ne  means  alone  remains  to 
me, —  I  have  long  foreboded  it,  I  even  think  it  a  necessity, 
—  namely,  to  make  total  bankruptcy  ;  but  I  postpone,  I  delay, 
T  rock  myself  with  hopes, with  chimeras;  I  know  them  to  be 
such,  and  yet  they  sustain  me  a  little  —  but  you  destroy  all 
by  the  horrible  enumeration  that  you  make  of  them.  Ah  ! 
what  a  deplorable  inventory  !  if  any  other  than  you  had 
attemjtted  to  console  me,  to  reconcile  me  to  life  l)y  these 
hoi»eless  consolations,  I  should  say  to  him,  like  Agnes, 
"  Horace,  with  two  words,  could  do  more  than  you  "  —  but 
it  is  Horace  who  speaks  to  me  !  Oh  !  mon  ami,  my  soul  is 
sinking.  Wliat  more  will  you  invent  to  torture  me  ?  I  shall 
be,  you  say,  sustained,  guaranteed,  defended,  etc.  Well ! 
never  have  I  been  all  that ;  if  you  set  your  friendship  at 
tliat  value,  I  ask  none  of  it.  I  have  ])een  weak,  incon- 
sistent, inihappy,  very  unliappy ;  I  have  feared  for  you ; 
I  have  wandered  in  the  wilderness ;  I  have  done  wrong,  no 


154  LETTERS   OF  [1774 

doubt ;  and  it  is  one  harm  the  more  to  dwell  upon  it. 
I  have  not  an  impulse,  I  never  say  a  word  to  you,  that 
does  not  cause  me  regret  or  repentance.  Mon  ami,  I  ought 
to  hate  you.  Alas  !  it  is  long  since  I  have  done  'what  I  ought, 
what  I  wish !     I  hate  myself,  I  condemn  myself,  and  I  love 

you. 

Sunday  evening,  October  9,  1774. 

Mon  ami,  I  have  read  your  letter  twice ;  and  the  total 
impression  that  I  receive  from  it  is  that  you  are  very 
amiable,  and  that  it  is  much  easier  not  to  love  you  at  all 
than  to  love  you  moderately.  Make  the  commentary  on 
that,  but  not  with  your  mind ;  it  is  not  to  your  mind  that  I 
speak.  Mon  ami,  if  I  chose,  I  could  dwell  on  certain  words 
in  your  letter  which  have  done  me  harm.  You  speak  of  my 
courage,  my  resources,  the  employment  of  my  time,  and  of 
that  of  my  soul  in  a  manner  to  make  me  die  of  shame  and 
regret  for  having  suffered  you  to  see  my  weakness.  Ah,  well ! 
it  was  in  my  soul,  of  which  no  impulse  can  be  hidden  from 
you.  When  it  was  moved  by  hatred,  I  let  you  see  it ;  but 
was  hatred  all  that  I  allowed  myself  to  feel  ? 

3Ion  am/i,  on  reading  again  the  recapitulation  that  you 
make  of  all  there  is  on  earth  to  keep  me  from  destruction,  I 
ended  by  laughing  over  it  because  it  reminded  me  of  a  saying 
of  President  Renault,  which  is  good.  At  a  certain  period 
of  his  life  he  thought  that,  in  order  to  add  to  the  esteem  in 
which  he  was  held,  it  would  be  well  to  become  devout ;  he 
made  a  general  confession,  and  afterwards  wTote  to  his 
friend  M.  d'Argenson,  "  Never  do  we  feel  so  rich  as  when 
we  move  our  belongings  [qve  lorsqu'on  demcnagc]." 

I  shall  dine  to-morrow  with  the  Duchesse  d'Anville.  I 
like  that  house ;  it  is  one  the  more  where  I  can  see  you ; 
you  live  for  what  you  love  and  for  the  gay  world  every 
evening ;   but  will  you  not  often  dine  where  I  do  ?     That 


1774]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  155 

will  bring  you  into  the  society  of  those  persons  who  are  the 
most  on  your  own  tone.  Fools  and  stupid  people  are  never 
afoot  before  five  or  six  o'clock ;  that  is  the  time  when  I 
return  to  my  chimney  corner,  where  I  nearly  always  find,  if 
not  what  I  should  have  chosen,  at  any  rate  nothing  that  I 
wish  to  avoid. 

How  is  it  that  I  have  never  yet  told  you  that  I  am  urged, 
entreated,  to  go  and  re-establish  my  health  in  England  at  the 
house  of  Lord  Shelburue  [Marquis  of  Lansdowne]  ?  He  is  a 
man  of  intellect,  the  leader  of  the  Opposition ;  he  was  the 
friend  of  Sterne,  and  adores  his  works.  See  what  an  attrac- 
tion he  must  have  for  me,  and  whether  I  am  not  much 
tempted  by  his  obliging  invitation.  Admit  that  if  you  had 
known  of  this  piece  of  good  fortime  you  would  not  have 
omitted  it  from  my  pompuus  inventor ij. 

Yes,  M.  de  Condorcet  is  with  his  mother;  he  works  ten 
hours  a  day.  He  has  a  score  of  correspondents,  intimate 
friends  ;  and  each,  without  fatuity,  may  think  himself  his 
first  object ;  never,  never  did  any  man  have  more  existence, 
greater  means,  so  much  felicity.  I  just  remember  that  you 
have  never  said  a  word  to  me  about  the  Due  de  Choiseul ; 
is  it  because  your  stay  at  Chanteloup  has  left  no  traces  on 
your  journey  ?  Well !  here  is  how  he  stands  in  Paris  :  the 
public  takes  no  notice  of  him ;  it  seems  to  me  that  the  best 
thing  for  him  at  present  is  to  remain  in  that  state  of 
oblivion,  for  he  will  gain  nothing  now  by  comparisons.  We 
might  have  owed  M.  Turgot  to  him  ten  years  ago,  but  he 
preferred  to  choose  such  ministers  as  Laverdy,  Maupeou, 
Terrai,  and  others. 

Your  letter  to  M.  d'Alembert  is  excellent ;  and  as  we  are 
very  communicative  we  gave  it  this  evening  to  M.  de  Yaines, 
who  was  charmed  with  it,  and  desires  to  show  it  to  him  who 
could  enjoy  it  without  its  alarming  his  modesty.  .  You  will 


156  LETTERS  OF  [1774 

never  guess  what  occupies  my  mind,  what  I  desire  to  do ; 
to  marry  one.  of  my  friends.  I  want  an  idea  that  has  come 
to  me  to  succeed ;  the  Archbishop  of  Toulouse  could  be  very 
helpful  to  the  success  of  the  affair.  The  young  lady  is  six- 
teen years  old  and  has  only  a  mother,  no  father,  and  a 
brother.  They  will  give  her,  on  marrying,  thirteen  thousand 
francs  a  year ;  her  mother  will  lodge  her,  and  do  so  for  a  long 
time,  because  the  son  is  a  child.  This  girl  caimot  have  less 
eventually  than  six  hundred  thousand  francs,  and  she  may 
be  much  richer :  will  that  suit  you,  man  ami  .?  Say  so,  and 
we  will  act ;  it  can  ]  )e  done  without  offence,  because  the 
Archbishop  of  Toulouse  has  as  much  skill  as  courtesy. 
Let  us  talk  it  over ;  and  if  this  plan  does  not  succeed  I  know 
a  man  who  would  be  very  glad  to  have  you  for  a  son-in-law ; 
l)ut  his  daughter  is  only  eleven  years  old ;  she  is  an  only 
child  and  will  be  very  rich.  Man  ami,  what  I  desire  above 
all  things  is  your  happiness ;  and  the  means  of  procuring  it 
for  you  will  become  the  chief  interest  of  my  life.  There 
was  a  time  when  my  soul  would  have  been  less  generous ; 
but  then  it  responded  to  one  who  would  have  rejected  with 
horror  the  empire  of  the  world.  What  a  memor}' !  how 
sweet,  how  cruel !  Good-night ;  if  I  receive,  as  I  hope,  a  letter 
fi'om  you  to-morrow  I  will  add  to  this  volume.  For  the  last 
two  days  I  have  suffered  less.  I  have  reached  the  stage  of 
two  chicken-wings  a  day,  and  if  that  regimen  does  not  suc- 
ceed better  than  the  others,  I  shall  put  myself  on  a  milk 

diet. 

Still  Sunday,  October  9. 

That  adieu  was  very  sudden,  very  abrupt,  and  you  will 
readily  imderstand.  that  I  have  a  thousand  other  things  to 
say  to  you ;  for,  if  I  am  not  mistaken,  this  is  the  last  letter  I 
shall  write  to  you.  As  to  this,  I  shall  know  to-morrow.  You 
tell  me  that  you  are  going  to  your  regiment ;  you  have  twice 


1774]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  157 

written  to  me  the  name  of  the  place  where  it  is  stationed, 
but,  thanks  to  the  beauty  of  your  writing,  I  do  not  know 
what  it  is.  I  seem  to  make  out  Livourne,  but  that,  surely, 
cannot  be  where  you  are  going  [it  was  Libourne,  a  new 
garrison  of  the  Corsican  Legion] .  Mon  ami,  write  me  from 
wherever  you  stop ;  you  must  compensate  me  for  the  priva- 
tion of  not  wi'iting  to  you.  I  do  not  feel  certain  that  you 
have  started  as  yet.  How  could  you  refuse  your  mother, — 
above  all,  if  she  is  not  convalescent  ?  she  must  be  ill  if  she 
still  has  fever.  How  I  hope  you  are  not  mistaken  and  that 
I  shall  really  see  you  in  two  weeks.  Fifteen  days  !  that  is  a 
long  way  off ;  once  I  looked  for  a  nearer  coming  —  Ah  !  I 
shudder  !  what  a  dreadful  recollection  !  it  poisons  hope.  Ah  ! 
mon  Dieu  !  it  was  3'ou  who  troubled  and  overthrew  the  hap- 
piness of  that  tender  and  impassioned  soul ;  it  was  you  who 
condemned  us  to  an  awfid.  misfortune,  and  —  it  is  you  I  love ! 
Yes,  we  hate  the  evil  that  we  do,  but  we  are  drawn  to  it. 
Without  your  consolation  I  should  have  died  of  grief,  and 
now  I  am  fated  to  live,  to  languish,  to  moan,  to  fear  you,  to 
love  3-ou,  to  curse  life  and  to  cherish  it  at  some  moments.  .  . . 
Here  I  was  interrupted ;  persons  came  and  proposed  to  me 
to  go  and  see  Duplessis.  He  is  a  portrait-painter  who  will 
stand  beside  Van  Dyck.  I  do  not  know  if  you  have  seen 
the  portrait  of  the  Abb^  Armaud  painted  by  him ;  but,  my 
friend,  you  must  certainly  see  that  of  Gluck  ;  it  has  a  degi'ee 
of  truth  and  perfection  which  is  better  and  gi-eater  than 
nature.  He  has  put  ten  heads  into  it,  all  of  different  char- 
acters ;  I  have  never  seen  anything  finer  or  truer  in  that 
respect.  ]\I.  d'Argental  came  there,  and  showed  us  a  letter 
he  had  just  received  from  M.  de  Yoltaii'e ;  I  thought  it  so 
good,  the  tone  so  natural,  it  brought  him  so  near  to  us,  that, 
without  thinking  whether  it  were  discreet  or  not,  I  asked  for 
the  letter ;  I  asked  for  a  copy ;  they  are  now  making  it,  and 


158  l?:tters  of  [k74 

'nion  ami  shall  read  it  —  that  thought  is  at  the  bottom  of 
everything.  Mon  ami,  1  iiiiist  repeat  myself  and  say,  as 
Sterne  to  liis  Eliza,  "  Your  pleasure  is  tlie  first  need  of  my 
heart." 

Mon  Dieu  !  how  difficult  it  is  to  begin  a  letter  when  one 
has  to  make  sentiment  with  one's  mind,  liut  1  must  write 
to  Mme.  de  Bouffiers.  She  has  not  once  mentioned  your 
name  to  me ;  I  am  not  sorry ;  but  how  is  it  that  persons  do 
not  seize  every  occasion  to  talk  of  that  which  pleases  them  ? 
There  is,  of  course,  a  certain  degree  of  affection  that  hinders ; 
it  is  that  which  prevents  me  from  speaking  to  her  of  you, 
but  she  has  never  felt  any  such  embarrassment,  I  am  sure ; 
she  has  nothing  to  do  with  loving,  —  she  is  too  charming ! 

Mon  ami,  I  know  myself  so  well  that  1  am  tempted  to 
think  you  are  laughing  at  me  when  you  speak  of  my  suc- 
cesses in  society.  It  is  eight  years  since  I  retired  from  the 
world ;  from  the  moment  that  I  loved  I  felt  a  di.sgust  for 
such  successes.  What  need  have  we  of  pleasing  when  we 
are  beloved  ?  Is  there  one  emotion,  one  desire  left  that  has 
not  for  its  object  the  person  whom  we  love  and  for  whom 
we  desire  to  live  exclusively  ?  Mon  ami,  you  have  no  such 
desire,  have  you  ? 

Friclay,  October  14,  1774. 

Mon  ami,  I  have  just  returned  from  hearing  the  "  Orpheus  ; " 
it  has  soothed,  it  has  calmed  my  soul.  I  wept,  but  my  tears 
had  no  bitterness ;  my  sorrow  was  gentle,  my  regrets  were 
mingled  with  memories  of  you,  and  my  thoughts  rested  on 
them  without  remorse.  I  wept  for  what  I  had  lost,  and  I 
loved  you ;  my  heart  was  able  for  both. 

Oh !  what  a  charming  art !  what  a  divine  art !  Music  was 
invented  by  a  sensitive  being  who  desired  to  console  the 
unhappy.  "What  lieneficent  balm  in  those  enchanting  sounds  ! 
Mon  ami,  for  incurable  sorrows  we  should  take   anodynes 


1774]  MLLE.  DE  LESPINASSE.  159 

only;  and  there  are  but  three  in  all  the  world  to  soothe 
my  heart :  you  first,  mon  ami,  you,  the  most  efficacious  of 
all,  you  who  lift  me  from  my  sorrow,  who  fill  my  soul  with 
a  sort  of  intoxication  that  takes  from  me  the  faculty  of 
remembering  and  foreseeing.  After  this  first  of  all  bless- 
ing, which  I  treasure  as  the  support  and  the  resource  of  my 
despair,  comes  opium  ;  it  is  not  dear  to  me  in  itself,  but  it  is 
necessar}'.  And  lastly,  that  which  is  agreeable  to  me,  which 
charms  away  my  griefs,  is  music.  Music  pours  into  my 
blood,  into  all  that  animates  me,  a  sweetness,  a  sensibility  so 
delightful  that  I  may  almost  say  it  turns  to  joy  my  regrets 
and  my  misfortunes ;  and  that  is  so  true  that  in  the  happiest 
period  of  my  life  music  was  not  to  me  then  of  the  value  it 
is  now.  3Ion  ami,  before  you  went  away  I  did  not  go  to 
"  Orpheus ;  '■"  I  did  not  feel  the  need  of  it ;  I  saw,  or  I  had 
seen  you,  or  I  expected  you ;  that  filled  all ;  but  since  your 
absence,  in  the  void  about  me,  in  the  many  and  various  crises 
of  despair  which  have  shaken  and  convulsed  my  soul,  I  have 
called  all  resources  to  my  aid.  How  feeble  they  are !  how 
impotent  against  the  poison  that  eats  away  my  life !  But  I 
must  turn  from  myself  and  speak  of  you ;  I  ought  not  to 
have  changed  that  topic. 

M.  Turgot  has  written  to  you  ;  he  has  made  amends,  for  he 
asks  you  to  do  him  a  service,  and  I  feel  very  sure  that  you 
have  thus  felt  it.  M.  de  Vaines  said  to  me  yesterday :  "  Make 
M.  de  Guibert  return ;  he  could  enlighten  us ;  he  would  be 
useful  to  us  about  things  of  which  we  are  ignorant  and  need 
information."  —  The  Comte  de  C  .  .  .  was  at  the  Opera 
to-night ;  he  came  to  see  me  in  my  box  and  talked  much  of 
his  affairs.  A  gi-eat  fortune  is  a  gi-eat  burden  ;  he  has  many 
lawsuits,  and  is  incessantly  occupied  with  a  mass  of  objects 
from  which  he  derives  neither  profit  nor  fame.  Ah  !  no,  hap- 
piness is  not  in  gieat  riches.     Where  is  it,  then  ?  among  a 


160  'LETTERS  OF  [1774 

few  erudites,  very  dull  and  very  solitary  ;  among  good  arti- 
sans, busy  in  a  lucrative  and  not  painful  labour  ;  among  good 
farmers  with  large  and  active  families,  who  live  in  decent 
comfort.  All  the  rest  of  the  world  swarms  with  fools,  imbe- 
ciles, and  madmen;  in  the  latter  class  are  the  unliappy  — 
among  whom  I  do  not  include  those  in  Charenton ;  for  the 
style  of  madness  which  makes  a  man  suppose  himself  the 
Eternal  Father  may  Ije  Ijetter,  perhaps,  than  wisdom  or 
happiness. 

I  send  £Cn  extract  of  a  letter  written  to  the  Swedish  am- 
bassador; you  will  observe  with  wliat  elegance  foreigners 
speak  French  !  1  have  not  changed  a  comma.  Everybody 
is  at  Fontainebleau,  and  I  am  glad  of  it ;  I  should  often  like 
to  write  over  my  door,  as  some  learned  man  did  over  his, 
"  Those  who  come  to  see  me  do  me  honour,  those  who  do  not 
come  give  me  pleasure."  M.  de  Marmontel  proposed  to  me 
to  come  last  Wednesday  and  read  me  his  new  comic  opera. 
He  came ;  there  were  some  twelve  persons  present.  Behold 
us  in  a  circle  surrounding  him,  and  listening  to  the  "  Vieux 
Gargon,"  —  that  was  the  name  of  the  piece.  The  begin- 
ning of  the  first  scene  seemed  to  me  muddled,  confused. 
What  do  you  think  I  then  did,  without  my  will  having  the 
slightest  part  in  it  ?  I  did  not  listen  to  a  word  ;  and  that  is 
so  true  that  if  I  were  hanged  for  it,  I  could  not  have  told 
the  name  of  a  personage  or  the  subject  of  the  play ;  I  got  out 
of  it  by  telling  the  truth,  namely,  that  the  time  seemed  to 
me  very  short.  The  fact  is  that,  since  I  have  been  imable 
to  fix  my  attention  upon  anything,  I  love  readings  dis- 
tractedly, because  they  leave  me  free ;  whereas  in  conversa- 
tion we  have  to  recall  our  thoughts.  Mon  ami,  you  may  say 
what  you  please,  but  I  do  not  like  conversation  unless  it  is 
you  or  the  Chevalier  de  Chastellux  who  make  it.  Apropos, 
he  is  much  pleased  with  me ;  I  have  stirred  up  his  friends, 


1774]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  161 

and  things  are  so  well  arranged  that  all  we  need  to  get  him 
received  into  the  Academy  is  the  death  of  one  of  the  forty. 
It  is  a  proper  thing,  no  doubt,  but  it  was  not  done  without 
difficulty ;  the  interest,  the  pleasure,  the  desire  he  put  into 
this  triumph  spurred  me  on.  Mon  Dieu  !  Fontenelle  was 
right :  there  are  rattles  for  all  ages ;  there  is  nought  but  sor- 
row too  old  for  them,  nought  but  passion  too  reasonable. 

Mon  ami,  those  are  not  paradoxes ;  think  them  over,  and 
you  will  see  they  can  be  maintained.  Good-night;  it  is 
time  to  let  you  breathe;  I  have  written  without  pausing. 
Opera  days  are  my  times  of  retreat.  I  aui  alone  when  I 
come  home ;  my  door  is  closed.  M.  d'Alembert  has  been 
to  see  "  Harlequin ; "  he  likes  that  better  than  "  Orpheus." 
Every  one  has  good  reasons,  and  I  am  far  from  criticising 
tastes ;  all  are  good.     Adieu,  till  to-morrow. 

Saturday,  three  o'clock,  after  the  postman. 

I  dined  at  home  to  get  my  letter  from  you  an  hour  earlier ; 
that  replies  to  your  last  question.  But,  mon  ami,  you  truly 
grieve  me  by  not  saying  a  word  as  to  why  you  did  not  write 
to  me  by  the  last  courier.  You  feel  you  did  wrong,  and  you 
want  to  turn  my  mind  away  from  it  by  promising  to  do 
better  in  future;  you  are  very  amiable,  mon  ami,  and  I 
thank  you  in  advance.  I  dare  not  desire  your  return,  but  I 
count  the  days  of  your  absence.  Mon  Dieu  !  how  slow  they 
are !  how  long  they  are !  how  they  weigh  upon  my  soul !  how 
difficult,  how  impossible  it  is  to  distract  one's  self  a  moment 
from  the  soul's  need !  Books,  society,  friendship,  all  imagi- 
nable resources  serve  only  to  make  us  feel  more  keenly  the 
vahie  and  power  of  what  we  lack. 

I  do  not  answer,  but  I  am  touched  to  the  depths  of  my 
heart  by  what  you  say  to  me  of  M.  de  Mora.  M.  d'Alem- 
bert has  written  to  M.  de  Fuentfes ;  he  wrote  from  his  own 


1fi2  LETTERS   OF  [1774 

impulse;  and  in  reading  nie  his  letter  he  wept,  and  made 
me,  too,  burst  into  tears.  Ah  !  how  tliat  thought  rends  me ! 
Moil  ami,  I  want  to  think  now  of  you,  and  to  justify  the 
feeling  that  made  me  burn  your  letters.  1  did  not  think  I 
should  survive  that  sacrifice  a  day,  and  as  I  made  it  my 
blood,  my  heart  were  frozen  with  despaii",  so  that  1  did  not 
fully  feel  the  loss  1  had  inflicted  on  myself  for  over  six  days. 
Ah !  twenty  times,  a  hundred  times  1  have  grieved  to  have 
burned  what  you  had  written :  nothing  can  repair  that  loss ; 
it  is  heart-breaking. 

Yes,  M.  Turgot  is  at  work  about  the  corvees.  Good-bye, 
mon  ami  ;  are  you  not  weary  of  reading  these  scribblings  ? 

Sunday  evening,  October  16,  1774. 

Mon  ami,  I  did  not  answer  your  charming  letter  yesterday, 
and  I  shall  never  answer  to  my  oion  satisfaction  what  you 
say  to  me  of  M.  de  Fuentcis.  Ah !  where  shall  I  find  expres- 
sions to  render  a  feeling  so  novel  to  my  soul  ?  You  have 
filled  me  with  the  tenderest,  warmest  gratitude ;  it  seems  to 
me  that  never  did  I  owe  so  much  to  any  one ;  your  emotion, 
your  sentiment,  are  noble  and  lofty  as  virtue  itself ;  why 
should  I  not  make  my  happiness  in  adoring  them  ?  I  do  not 
know  the  nature  of  my  own  feeling,  but  you  are  the  object 
of  it,  and  there  are  moments  when  I  am  ready  to  exclaim 
that  remorse  is  no  longer  in  my  heart. 

Alas !  I  dare  not  say  those  words ;  I  feel,  I  know  that 
conscience  cannot  be  deceived.  A\niat  trouble  rises  within 
me !  how  unhappy  I  am  !  J/o?i  ami,  do  you  think  it  possible 
that  peace  can  return  to  my  soul  by  loving  you?  —  or  do 
you  think  it  possible  that  I  can  live  without  lo\'ing  you  ?  It 
is  of  you  that  I  ask  knowledge  of  myself ;  I  know  myself 
no  longer;  with  a  word  you  change  the  disposition  of  my 
souL     I  know  not  if  this  is  so  because  I  am  weakened  by 


-.774]  MLLE.    DE   LESPINASSE.  163 

siiifermg,  or  because  my  feeling  is  strengthened  by  the  pains  I 
take  to  combat  and  destroy  it.  If  it  be  the  latter,  admit  that 
I  have  a  very  high  opinion  of  myself  !  Ah  !  711011  Dieu  !  how 
natm-al  passion  is  to  me,  and  how  foreign  is  reason  !  Mon 
ami,  never  did  any  one  so  reveal  herself ;  but  how  could  I 
hide  from  you  my  inmost  thoughts  ?  —  they  are  filled  by 
you ;  and  how  could  I  live  if  I  knew  I  were  usurping  your 
esteem  and  good  opinion  ?  No,  mon  ami,  see  me  as  I  am, 
and  grant  me  —  not  what  I  deserve,  but  —  what  I  need  to 
keep  me  from  dying  of  grief,  or  to  give  me  courage,  for  I 
know  not  which  I  prefer  to  owe  to  you,  life  or  death.  Both 
depend  on  you,  and  whichever  way  you  decide,  I  shall  thank 
you. 

Mon  ami,  did  you  feel  as  you  wrote  them  the  force  of  those 
words:  "My  greatest  misfortune  would  lie  to  make  you  cold 
to  me  "  ?  —  and  you  wish  to  "  diminish  my  torture."  Ah 
heavens !  what  a  means  }ou  employ  to  that  end  !  But  I  will 
not  return  upon  the  past  1  hope  I  shall  be  deceived  by  you 
no  more.  If  I  am  not  what  you  love  best  I  shall  at  least  see 
in  your  soul  the  place  you  assign  me,  and  I  pledge  myself  to 
seek  no  other. 

I  went  again  to  "  Orpheus  "  this  evening ;  but  I  was  with 
Mme.  de  Chatillon :  it  is  true  that  I  should  have  a  very  bad 
opinion  of  myself  if  I  did  not  love  her ;  she  exacts  so  little 
and  gives  so  much. 

Monday  morning. 
How  can  you  question  whether  you  ought  to  have  left 
me  in  ignorance  of  your  fever  ?  Oh !  man  ami,  it  is  not  I 
whom  you  ought  to  spare  ;  I  love  you  too  well  not  to  prefer 
to  suffer  with  you  and  through  you.  Those' who  spare  one 
another  do  not  love ;  there  is  a  wide  distance  between  the 
feelings  we  command  and  those  which  command  us  :  the  first 
are  perfect,  and  I  abhor  them.     If  some  day  you  become  per 


164  LETTERS  OF  [1774 

feet  like  Mine,  de  B  .  .  .  ,  like  the  cold  Grandison,  I  shall 
admire  you,  monami,  but  I  shall  be  radically  cured. 

Here  I  was  interrupted  by  Mme.  de  Chatillon ;  she  asks  to 
write  on  the  rest  of  this  sheet ;  I  give  her  paper  and  pens  — 
but  my  letter,  it  is  not  possible ! 

Monday,  after  the  postman. 

You  have  been  alarmed  —  you  are  still  distressed.  Mon 
Dieu  !  how  I  suffer  from  all  that  makes  you  suffer,  and  how 
grieved  I  am  for  having  added  to  the  anxiety  of  your  present 
condition.  Yes,  I  am  guilty,  I  am  weak,  [  condemn  myself, 
I  hate  myself,  but  that  will  not  repair  the  harm  I  have  done 
to  you.  You  saw  by  the  followmg  post  that  this  fever  was 
merely  the  result  of  the  violent  state  of  my  soul ;  my  body  is 
not  strong  enough  to  support  these  shocks.  Mon  ami,  do  not 
pity  me  ;  say  to  yourself,  "  She  is  beside  herself ; "  that  thought 
will  calm  you,  and  if  you  do  not  suffer  I  am  happy.  But  I 
hope  that  you  will  tell  me,  carefully  and  with  details,  all  the 
news  of  your  patients.  It  is  dreadful  to  fear  for  those  we 
love ;  that  species  of  torture  is  more  than  my  strength  and 
my  reason  can  bear. 

Mon  Dieu  !  yes,  you  must  stay  with  your  family  ;  your 
departure  would  do  them  great  harm,  and  you  must  spare  them 
during  the  whole  time  that  their  health  is  in  question.  But 
I  need  not  say  this  to  you  ;  you  see  things  better  than  I ;  you 
feel  with  greater  delicacy.  Mon  ami,  I  am  almost  discontented 
because  you  do  not  find  pleasure  in  making  me  share  your 
present  condition,  especially  as  it  is  painful  to  you ;  I  would 
have  you  say  with  Montaigne,  but  in  a  contrary  sense, 
"  Methinks  I  rob  her  of  her  part."  Yes,  mon  ami,  you  ought 
to  feel  that  you  have  no  longer  the  right  to  suffer  alone. 
Alas !  I  am  so  wholly  on  the  tone  of  those  who  suffer,  they 
speak  my  language  so  distinctly,  that  it  seems  to  me  there  is 


1774]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  165 

no  need  to  count  on  my  affections  in  order  to  find  sweetness 
in  complaint  to  me. 

Adieu,  mon  ami  ;  I  meant  to  write  you  a  thousand  nothings 
but  your  sadness  takes  awa}'  my  strength.  In  vain  I  say  to 
myself:  " 'V^^len  my  letter  reaches  him  his  condition  will  no 
longer  be  the  same  "  —  but  that  in  which  you  were  possesses 
me  ;  it  cannot  change,  for  me  until  you  will  it  should.  Ah  ! 
what  ascendency  !  what  force  !  what  power  !  it  acts  through 
a  thousand  leagues  !  I  told  you  that  the  sentiment  I  dare 
not  name  is  the  sole  thing  on  earth  that  men  have  been  unable 
to  spoil.  Mon  ami,  if  it  were  lost,  tell  yourself  always,  so 
long  as  I  live,  that  you  know  where  it  lives,  where  it  reigns 
with  more  vigour  than  it  does  in  most  Frenchwomen. 

Friday  evening,  October  21,  1774. 

Mon  ami  !  how  slowly  time  rolls  on  !  since  Monday  last  I 
am  weighed  down  by  it ;  there  is  nothing  I  have  not  tried,  to 
cheat  my  impatience.  I  am  perpetually  in  motion ;  I  have 
been  everywhere,  I  have  seen  everything,  and  I  have  had  but 
one  thought  —  to  a  sick  soul  nature  has  but  one  colour ;  all 
things  are  swathed  in  crape.  Tell  me,  how  do  people  distract 
their  thoughts  '  how  do  they  console  themselves  ?  Ah  !  it  is 
from  you  alone  that  I  can  learn  to  endure  life ;  you  alone  can 
shed  upon  it  that  charm  mingled  with  sorrow  which  makes 
me  cherish  and  detest  existence  alternately. 

Mon  ami,  1  shall  have  a  letter  from  }ou  to-morrow ;  that 
hope  alone  gives  me  strength  to  write  to  you  to-night.  You 
will  tell  me  if  you  are  reassured  about  the  health  of  your  dear 
ones ;  and  perhaps  you  will  speak  of  your  return  ;  but,  at  any 
rate,  you  will  speak  to  me.  If  you  only  knew  how  destitute, 
abandoned,  I  feel  when  I  have  jio  news  of  you !  Ah  !  how 
short  your  little  letter  was  !  how  cold !  It  seemed  to  me 
that  in  saying  how  uneasy  and  even  alarmed  you  were,  you 


166  LETTERS  OF  [1774 

were  not  saying  all !  What  is  it  ?  are  you  hiding  your  heart 
from  me  ?  do  you  wish  still  to  rend  mine  ?  Have  you  not  told 
me  that  you  wx)uld  tell  me  all ;  that  you  would  give  me  a  con- 
fidence without  reserve  ;  that  I  was  your  friend ;  that  your 
soul  could  pour  itself  into  mine ;  that  you  would  make  me 
live  in  all  your  emotions  ;  that  whatever  wounded  my  heart 
could  never  be  unknown  by  yours  ?  Ah  !  mon  ami,  know  me 
well ;  see  what  I  am  for  you  ;  and,  having  that  knowledge,  it 
will  be  impossible  for  you  to  conceive  a  project  of  deceiving 
me,  or  even  of  concealing  anything  from  me. 

Saturday  morning. 

I  left  you  yesterday  out  of  consideration  for  you  ;  I  was  so 
sad  '  I  liad  just  come  from  "  Orpheus."  That  music  drives 
me  wild ;  it  sweeps  me  away ;  I  cannot  miss  it  a  single  day ; 
my  soul  thirsts  for  that  species  of  pain.  Ah  !  mon  Dieu  ! 
how  little  I  am  on  the  key  of  those  about  me  !  yet  never  had 
any  one  more  cause  to  treasure  friendship.  My  friends  are 
excellent  persons ;  their  attentions,  their  interest  never  flags ; 
and  I  now  comprehend  what  they  find  in  me  to  attach  them. 
It  is  my  sorrow,  it  is  my  trouble,  it  is  what  I  say,  it  is  what 
I  do  not  say,  that  stirs  them,  that  warms  their  hearts.  Yes, 
I  see  it,  kind  and  feeling  hearts  love  the  unhappy ;  they  find 
in  them  an  attraction  that  occupies  and  employs  their  soul ; 
we  love  to  feel  ourselves  feeling,  and  the  sorrows  of  others 
have  just  that  measure  which  makes  us  compassionate  with- 
out suffering.  Well !  I  promise  them  that  enjoyment  so 
long  as  it  remains  to  me  to  live. 

Mon  ami,  1  meant  to  tell  you,  the  last  time  I  wrote,  that 
you  ought  to  lodge  in  the  same  furnished  house  as  the 
Chevalier  d'Aguesseau ;  that  would  spare  you  both  the 
trouble  of  going  to  see  each  other ;  it  would  be  convenient 
for  you,  and  I  should  be  secured  against  your  quitting  my 


1774]  MLLE.  DE   LESPINASSE.  167 

quarter.  Yes,  it  is  always  some  personal  interest  that  un- 
derlies all,  that  prompts  all,  and  the  fools  and  the  false  wits 
who  have  attacked  Helvdtius  have  doubtless  never  loved,  and 
never  reflected.  Ah  !  good  God  ■  how  many  people  live  and 
die  without  having  felt  the  one  or  done  the  other  1  So  much 
the  better  for  them,  so  much  the  worse  for  us  —  yes,  so 
much  the  worse ;  for  I  cannot  express  to  you  the  disgust,  the 
paroxysms  of  disgust,  which  I  feel,  not  for  the  fools,  but  for 
hose  who  are  so  much  of  my  own  kind  that  I  foresee  what 
chey  are  going  to  say  before  they  open  their  lips.  —  Ah !  I 
am  very  ill !  I  can  no  longer  endure  those  who  resemble 
me ;  all  that  is  beside  me,  on  my  level,  seems  so  small ;  I 
need  to  be  made  to  raise  my  eyes ;  without  which  I  am  wear- 
ied and  dulled.  Mon  ami,  society  offers  me  now  but  two  in- 
terests :  I  must  love,  or  I  must  be  enlightened.  Intelligence 
is  not  enough,  I  want  much  intellect ;  that  is  saying  that  I 
now  listen  to  five  or  six  persons  only,  and  that  I  read  but 
six  or  seven  books.  Yet  there  are  many  more  persons  than 
that  who  have  claims  upon  me ;  but  they  are  claims  of  feel- 
ing and  confidence,  and  do  not  alter  my  condition  of  mind 
in  general.  Here  is  the  result :  what  is  less  than  myself 
smothers  me  and  crushes  me ;  what  is  at  my  level  didls  me 
and  fatigues  me.  It  is  only  that  which  is  above  me  that 
sustains  me  and  tears  me  from  myself ;  I  shall  ever  say  with 
the  old  classic,  "  Friends  '  save  me  from  myself."  All  this 
proves  that  vanity,  extinct  within  me,  is  replaced  by  uni- 
versal and  deadly  disgust. 

The  Comtesse  de  Boufflers  has  not  reached  that  point, 
therefore  she  is  very  agreeable.  I  have  seen  her  often  this 
week  ;  she  came  to  dine  with  Mme.  Geoffrin  on  Wednesday 
and  was  charming ;  she  did  not  say  a  word  that  was  not  a 
paradox.  She  was  attacked,  and  defended  herself  so  wittily 
that  her  fallacies  were  almost  as  good   as   truth.     ¥ov  in- 


168  LE'ITEHS   OF  [1774 

stance :  she  said  it  was  a  gieat  misfortune  to  be  an  ambassa- 
dor, it  mattered  not  from  what  country  or  to  what  nation ;  it 
was  dreadful  exile,  etc.  Then  she  told  us  that,  in  the  days 
when  she  liked  England  best,  she  would  never  have  con- 
sented to  live  there  permanently  unless  she  could  have 
taken  with  her  twenty-four  or  five  of  her  intimate  friends, 
and  sixty  to  eighty  other  x^ersons  who  were  absolutely  neces- 
sary to  her ;  and  it  was  with  much  seriousness  and  especially 
with  much  feeling  that  slie  tluis  inf(jrmed  us  of  the  needs  of 
her  soul.  What  I  wish  you  could  liave  seen  was  the  aston- 
ishment she  caused  in  Lord  Shelburne.  He  is  simple, 
natural ;  he  has  soul  and  strength  ;  he  likes  and  is  attracted 
by  that  only  whicli  resembles  himself,  at  least  in  being 
natural.  He  went  to  see  M.  de  Malesherbes,  and  returned 
enchanted.  He  said  to  me :  "  I  have  seen  for  the  first  time 
in  my  life  what  I  did  not  believe  could  exist,  —  a  man  whose 
soul  is  absolutely  exempt  from  fear  and  hope,  but  who, 
nevertheless,  is  full  of  life  and  ardour.  Nothing  in  the 
world  can  trouble  his  peace ;  nothing  is  necessary  to  him, 
but  he  interests  himself  keenly  in  all  that  is  good."  And 
then  he  added  :  "  I  have  travelled  much,  and  I  have  never 
brought  away  with  me  so  deep  an  impression.  If  I  do  any 
good  during  the  time  that  remains  to  me  to  live,  T  am  cer- 
tain that  the  recollection  of  M.  de  Malesherbes  will  inspire 
my  soul."  Mon  ami,  that  is  noble  praise,  and  he  who  gives 
it  is,  beyond  a  doubt,  an  interesting  man.  I  think  him  very 
fortunate  to  be  born  an  Englishman ;  1  have  seen  much  of 
him  and  listened  to  him  much ;  he  has  intellect,  ardour, 
elevation  of  soul.  He  reminds  me  a  little  of  the  two 
men  in  the  world  whom  I  have  loved,  and  for  whom  1 
would  live  or  die.  He  goes  away  next  week,  and  I  am  glad  ; 
he  has  been  the  cause,  through  social  arrangements,  that  I 
have  dined  every  day  with  fifteen  persons,  and  that  fatigues 


1774]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  169 

me  more  than  it  interests.  I  need  repose  ;  my  bodily  machine 
is  worn-out.  Good-bye,  mon  ami,  I  await  the  post ;  that  is 
what  is  necessary  to  me. 

Saturday,  October  22,  1774. 

3fon  Dieu  !  how  troubled  and  grieved  I  am  by  what  you 
tell  me.  I  believe  all  that  I  fear  ;  imagine,  therefore,  how  I 
share  what  you  suffer.  Ah !  it  is  at  such  moments  that 
separation  is  absolutely  intolerable  to  me.  Mon  ami,  your 
troubles  are  mine,  and  it  is  dreadful  to  me  to  be  unable  to 
comfort  you.  It  seems  to  me  that  if  I  were  with  you  I 
could  so  take  possession  of  your  fears,  your  troubles,  that 
nothing  would  remain  to  you  but  that  which  I  could  not 
take  away.  Ah !  to  share  is  not  enough.  I  would  suffer 
through  you,  for  you ;  and  with  such  tenderness,  such  pas- 
sion, there  is  no  sorrow  that  could  not  be  assuaged,  no  alarm 
that  could  not  be  quieted.  Mo)i  Dieu  !  how  unfortunate  I 
am !  At  the  only  moment  of  my  life  when  I  might  have  done 
you  good,  I  am  condemned  to  be  useless  to  you !  Those 
who  love  you  will  say  to  you  what  I  should  say  —  better, 
perhaps.  I  am  too  near  you  to  express  what  I  feel.  Are 
there  words  that  can  render  all  the  emotions  of  a  suffering 
soul,  of  a  soul  struck  by  terror,  and  to  which  misfortune  has 
forbidden  hope  ?  Mon  ami,  \h  this  state,  which  is  mine,  we 
can  express  and  explain  ourselves  by  three  words  only  :  "  I 
love  you." 

Ah !  if  they  could  pass  into  your  soul  just  as  I  feel  them  ! 
Yes,  if  they  could,  whatever  be  your  sorrow,  you  would  feel 
a  gentler  feeling.  Noiv  it  is  that  I  have  a  mortal  regret  at 
all  you  lack  in  affection  for  me  ;  mon  ami,  were  it  otherwise, 
we  could  make  our  consolation ;  the  remedy  would  be  beside 
the  ill.  Ah  '  when  one  is  in  trouble  it  is  dreadful  to  love 
feebly :  for  it  is  in  ourselves  that  we  find  true  strength,  and 
nothing  gives  it  so  much  as  passion ;  the  feelings  of  another 


170  LETTERS   OF  [1774 

please    us,   touch    us;  there   are   noue   but    our   own   tliat 
support  us. 

But  that  resource  fails  nearly  all  the  world ,  nearly  all  who 
exist  love  only  because  they  are  loved.  Ah  !  mon  Dieu  !  what 
a  poor  way  !  how  small  and  feeble  it  leaves  the  soul !  But 
this  depends  neither  on  will  nor  on  thought ;  it  is  therefore 
as  senseless  to  seek  to  excite  it  as  to  labour  to  quench  it. 
Let  us  stay,  then,  what  we  are,  until  nature,  or  I  know  not 
what,  ordains  otherwise. 

You  are  too  kind,  a  thousand  times  too  kind  to  occupy 
your  mind  with  my  ills.  To  suffer  has  become  my  exist- 
ence ;  still  I  am  better  since  I  have  taken  chicken  for  my 
only  nourishment ;  I  suffer  less.  Adieu,  mon  ami,  I  speak 
of  myself  and  think  only  of  you.  From  now  till  Monday 
I  shall  be  in  a  violent  state.  You  will  write  me,  I 
believe. 

Sunday  evening,  October  23,  1774. 

Mon  ami,  to  calm  myself,  to  deliver  myself  from  a  thought 
that  pains  me,  I  must  speak  to  you.  I  await  to-morrow's  post- 
hour  with  an  impatience  that  you  alone,  perhaps,  can  conceive. 
You  will  hear  me,  if  you  cannot  answer  me,  and  that  is  some- 
thing. It  would  be,  no  doubt-  sweeter,  more  consoling,  to 
speak  in  dialogue;  but  monologue  is  endurable  when  we 
can  say  to  ourselves,  "I  speak  in  solitude,  but  I  am 
heard." 

Mon  ami,  I  am  in  a  detestable  physical  condition,  which  I 
attribute  to  that  hemlock  ;  it  retained,  I  believe,  some  poison- 
ous property ;  I  feel  an  exhaustion,  a  faintness,  which  has 
made  me  think  twenty  times  to-day  that  I  was  about  to  lose 
consciousness,  and  at  this  moment  I  feel  an  inexpressible 
distress.  I  feel  what  Fontenelle  described  shortly  before 
his  death,  —  "a  great  difficulty  in  Icing."  But  that  which 
excites  my  soul  will  give  me  strength  to  writp.     Mon  anii 


1774]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  171 

I  do  not  know  if  I  told  you  I  had  seen  the  wife  of  Comte 
.  .  .  ;  her  appearance  is  common,  but  her  tone  is  ol^liging, 
and  she  shows  a  great  desire  to  please ;  nevertheless,  such 
as  she  is,  I  should  not  think  her  good  enough  to  be  the  wife 
of  the  man  I  love  most.  Mon  ami^  I  am  more  than  ever  sure 
that  a  man  who  has  talent,  genius,  and  is  destined  to  fame, 
ought  not  to  marry.  Marriage  is  a  veritable  extinguisher  of 
all  that  is  great  and  may  be  dazzling.  If  a  man  is  honom- 
able  and  feeling  enough  to  be  a  good  husband,  he  will  be 
nothing  more ;  no  doubt  that  is  enough  if  happiness  is  there. 
But  there  are  men  destined  by  Nature  to  be  great  and  not 
happy.  Diderot  says  that  Xatm-e  in  creating  a  man  of 
genius,  waves  her  torch  above  his  head  and  says  to  him, 
"  Be  great,  and  be  unhappy."  That,  I  think,  is  what  she  said 
on  the  day  that  you  were  born.  Good-night,  I  can  no  more ; 
to-morrow  ! 

Monday,  after  post-time. 

Xo  letter !  I  should  tremble  were  it  another  than  you ; 
but  I  reassure  myselt  a  little  by  remembering  that  it  is 
not  in  you  to  be  punctual  or  consecutive.  This  is  natural, 
but  also  afflicting.  Mon  ami,  I  make  you  no  reproaches ; 
I  only  pity  you,  whatever  be  your  situation,  that  the 
thought  of  your  soul  was  not  for  me.  Adieu ;  I  am  de- 
pressed, and  in  a  state  of  weakness  which  is  extraordinary ; 
it  requires  an  effort  to  hold  my  pen.  I  shall  no  longer  ex- 
pect letters  from  you ;  but  I  shall  desire  them  as  long  as  I 
breathe. 

Tuesday  evening,  October  25,  1774. 
Ah !  I  have  been  unjust ;  that  would  be  a  wrong  in  any  one, 
but  I  reproach  myself  for  it  as  a  crime  with  you.  Forgive 
me,  mon  ami ;  I  ought  to  have  thanked  you,  and  I  blamed 
you.  That  thought  hurts  me  as  though  I  were  guilty ;  but 
the  post  was  guilty,  and  I  suspected  it  so  little  that  when 


172  LETTERS  OF  [1774 

they  brought  me  my  letters  to-day  I  did  not  look  at  the 
outside  of  them;  I  did  not  care  which  I  read  first  or  last. 
Mon  ami,  when  I  opened  the  second  I  gave  a  cry ;  it  was 
your  writing !  my  heart  palpitated.  If  it  is  a  very  painful  ill 
to  await  and  see  notldny  come,  it  is  a  very  keen  and  very 
lively  pleasure  to  be  thus  surprised.  Mon  ami,  I  love  you 
to  madness ;  all  things  tell  it  to  me,  all  things  prove  it  — 
and  often  more  than  I  wish.  I  give  you  more  than  you 
desire ;  you  have  no  need  of  being  so  much  loved,  and  I, 
I  have  much  need  of  repose,  that  is,  of  death. 

But  I  am  too  selfish ;  I  talk  to  you  of  myself,  whereas  I 
ought  to  tell  you  of  the  pleasure  with  which  I  read  your 
words  :  "  Better  —  all  goes  well  —  I  am  at  ease."  Ah  I 
mon  ami,  I  breathed  again ;  it  seemed  as  if  those  words 
gave  back  to  me  both  life  and  strength ;  for  three  days 
I  was  annihilated;  they  say  this  condition  came  from  the 
nerves,  but  I  who  know  more  than  my  doctor,  I  know  that 
it  came  from  you.  I  am  like  Lucas,  who  explains  everything 
by  his  vocation  of  gardener.  Ah  !  mon  Dieu  !  how  can  I  suf- 
fice for  all  I  feel,  for  all  I  suffer  ?  —  and  yet  my  soul  has  but 
two  feelings :  one  consumes  me  with  sorrow,  and  when  I  give 
myself  up  to  the  other,  which  ought  to  calm  me,  I  am  pursued 
by  remorse  and  by  a  regret  more  heart-breaking  still  than  the 
tortures  of  remorse.  Myself  again !  how  I  detest  this  cease- 
less return  !  do  I  banish  myself  in  saying  that  I  adore  your 
sensibility  and  your  truth  ? 

Ah  !  hide  nothing  from  me ;  you  gain  much  by  letting 
me  see  all  the  emotions  that  move  you.  Mon  ami,  in  a 
situation  precisely  like  that  in  which  you  have  been,  but 
which  had  fatal  results,  M.  de  Mora  wrote  me,  with  almost 
the  same  expressions  as  yours,  the  anguish  that  his  mother's 
illness  caused  him.  I  have  already  told  you  never  to  have 
the  thought  of  sparing  me ;  believe  that  my  feelings  will  lead 


1774]  MLLE.  DE  LESPINASSE.  173 

me  much  farther  than  you  could  make  me  go.  Mon  ami,  it  is 
good  to  know  that  your  mother's  convalescence  is  so  near,  but, 
in  spite  of  what  you  say,  I  feel  that  you  will  stay  there  longer 
than  you  think.  You  will  certainly  commit  the  heedlessness 
of  forgetting  to  tell  me  not  to  write  to  you  and  where  to 
wi-ite  to  you  on  your  way.  Then,  when  no  letters  reach 
you,  you  will  blame  me,  or  you  will  have  the  kindness  to 
feel  anxious;  yet  a  little  forethought  would  avoid  it  all. 

The  Chevalier  de  Chastellux  is  at  present  at  Chanteloup 
with  the  Due  de  Choiseul.  He  keeps  up  with  everything, 
and  attaches  great  importance  to  this  manner  of  multiplying 
himself  indefinitely.  He  is  so  rich  and  so  generous  that  he 
disdains  to  gather  in  for  himself  ;  it  suffices  him  to  sow  ;  he 
receives  nothing ;  he  gives  everywhere  and  to  everybody. 
He  told  me  the  other  day  that  his  pleasure  lay  in  producing 
effects.  M.  de  Cham  fort  has  arrived ;  I  have  seen  him,  and 
we  read  together  his  "  Eulogy  on  La  Fontaine."  He  returns 
from  the  baths  in  good  health,  richer  in  fame  and  wealth, 
and  possessed  of  four  friends  who  love  him,  namely  :  Mes- 
dames  de  Grammont,  de  Eanc^,  d'Amblimont,  and  the  Com- 
tesse  de  Choiseul.  This  assortment  is  almost  as  variegated 
as  Harlequin's  coat,  but  it  is  only  the  more  piquant,  agree- 
able, and  charming.  1  assure  you  that  M.  de  Chamfort  is  a 
very  well-satisfied  young  man ;  and  he  does  his  best  to  be 
modest.  M.  Grimm  has  returned  from  Eussia.  I  have 
overwhelmed  him  with  questions.  He  pictures  the  Czarina 
[Catherine  II.],  not  as  a  sovereign,  but  as  an  interesting 
woman,  full  of  wit  and  good  sayings,  and  all  that  can  seduce 
and  charm.  In  what  he  told  me  of  her  I  recognize  more  the 
charming  art  of  the  Greek  courtesan  than  the  dignity  and 
state  of  the  empress  of  a  great  empire. 

But  a  greater  painter  in  another  manner  has  returned  to 
us ;  I  mean  Diderot ;  he  sends  me  word  that  I  shall  see  him 


174  LETl'ERS   OF  [1774 

to-]iiuiTOW ;  I  shall  be  very  glad.  JiuL  in  the  present  condi- 
tion of  my  soul,  he  is  the  man  of  all  otliers  whom  I  would 
rather  not  see  hal)itually  ;  he  forces  tlie  attention,  and  that 
is  precisely  what  1  cannot  and  will  uot  give  consecutively  to 
any  one.  When  1  say  that,  you  understand  that  it  means 
I  do  uot  wish  my  thoughts  to  be  distracted  from  the  one 
person  who  tills  them  wholl}-.  All !  what  a  clumsy  explana- 
tion !  But  the  truth  is  you  are  stupid ;  one  must  ticket  a 
thing  to  make  you  understand  it.  Courage,  mon  ami ;  for  1 
think  that  by  this  time  you  have  had  a  ream  of  paper  with- 
out deducting  a  single  page.  You  can  put  off  the  reading 
of  it  till  you  are  in  your  travelling-carriage ;  I  shall  occupy 
your  journey,  and  you  will  find  me  at  the  end  of  it. 

So  you  really  think  that  you  will  be  glad  to  see  me  ? 
WTiat  you  say  to  me  is  so  agreeable.  It  would  be  sweet, 
indeed,  to  be  loved  by  you !  but  my  soul  cannot  attain  to 
that  degree  of  happiness ;  it  would  be  too  much.  A  few 
moments,  a  few  flashes  of  pleasure,  —  that  is  enough  for  the 
unhappy ;  they  breathe  and  recover  courage  to  suffer. 

Wednesday,  October  26,  1774. 

I  have  just  re-read  your  letter ;  a  sentence  had  escaped 
my  notice,  and  it  delights  me ;  you  say,  "  I  return  to  our 
troubles  ..."  Ah  !  tell  me  on  what  thought  I  can  rest  to 
breathe  in  peace ;  on  that  of  your  arrival  ?  No,  no,  it  makes 
me  quiver;  I  dare  not  even  desire  it;  if  it  were  delayed  I 
believe  I  should  die.  Can  you  conceive  such  an  excess  of 
inconsistency  ?  But  that  excess  does  not  proceed  from  false 
reasoning ;  it  comes  from  a  soul  con\'ulsed  by  the  most  con- 
tending emotions,  which  you  may,  perhaps,  imderstand,  but 
are  unable  to  share. 

I  am  interrupted,  and  again  by  Mme.  de  Chatillon.  I 
begin  to  think  that  the  first    of   all    qualities   required   to 


1774]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  175 

make  others  love  us  is  to  be  loving.  You  cannot  imagine 
all  that  she  invents  to  reach  my  heart.  Ah !  if  you  loved 
me  as  she  does  !  —  no,  no  !  I  do  not  wish  it ;  heaven  pre- 
serve me  from  knowing  twice  in  my  life  such  happiness. 

Friday,  October  28,  1774. 

What  say  you  to  that  invocation  ?  does  it  not  seem  as  if 
I  had  lost  my  head  ?  Moii  ami,  it  comes  from  an  honourable 
sentiment.  I  wronged  M.  de  Mora,  and  I  find  a  sort  of 
sweetness  in  thinking  that  he  alone  will  have  made  me 
know  happiness ;  that  it  is  to  him  only  that  I  shall  ever 
owe  having  felt,  for  a  short  while,  all  the  value  that  life  can" 
have.  Sometimes  I  feel  myself  less  guilty  because  I  am 
punished;  and,  do  you  not  see,  all  that  would  be  reversed, 
effaced,  if  I  were  loved  ?  I  must  hold  to  virtue  b}-  remorse, 
and  to  him  who  loved  me  by  regret  for  having  lost  him. 
That  regret  is  very  keen  and  heart-rending ;  there  are  few 
days  when  it  does  not  cause  me  convulsions  of  despair. 

They  forced  me  to  go  and  see  Lekain  in  "  Tancrfede ; " 
I  had  not  seen  it  since  its  improvement,  and  I  did  not  care 
to.  However,  I  went ;  the  first  two  acts  wearied  me  exces- 
sively ;  the  third  has  much  interest,  which  goes  on  increas- 
ing to  the  end ;  in  the  fifth  act  there  were  moments,  words 
which  transported  me  to  the  scene  at  Bordeaux.  I  thought 
I  was  dying ;  I  lost  consciousness,  and  they  were  obliged  to 
watch  with  me  all  night  because  I  had  continual  fainting 
fits.  I  could  not  speak  to  you  of  this  the  last  few  days ;  I 
was  too  near  to  the  impression  I  had  received;  I  promised 
myself  not  to  go  in  search  of  such  shocks  again.  I  can  bear 
nothing  but  "  Orpheus,"  and  I  find  with  regret  that  you  will 
not  see  it.  There  is  to  be  a  new  opera  November  8 ;  the 
music  is  by  Floquet.  The  public  may  like  it  perhaps ;  after 
what  is  good  it  applauds  what  is  mediocre,  and  even  what  is 


176  '  LETTERS   OF  [1774 

detestable,  —  for  M.  Dorat  has  had  success.  And  it  is  the 
public  that  make  reputations  !  —  but  the  public  of  the  long 
run ;  for  that  of  the  moment  never  has  tlie  taste  nor  the 
intelligence  which  sets  the  seal  on  what  shcnild  go  down  to 
posterity.  Bring  me  back  the  Linguet  [a  political  and  liter- 
ary journal].  Everybody  is  at  Fontainebleau ;  but  we  still 
have  Tiarou  de  Kock  and  Baron  Gleichen,  and  they  stay  too 
late  in  the  evenings  for  me.  I  do  not  know  if  I  deceive 
myself,  but  I  believe  solitude  would  be  good  for  me ;  soci- 
ety seldom  interests  me  now,  and  it  always  weighs  upon 
me.  Oh !  what  a  poor  invalid  T  am !  In  vain  T  tuin  to 
this  and  that;  I  am  only  the  worse  for  it.  Adieu,  mon 
ami. 

I  have  just  seen  the  Comte  de  C  .  .  .  I  told  him  he 
would  have  to  breathe  malarious  air,  for  in  I  lie  intoxication 
of  felicity  in  which  he  is  living  it  could  only  be  a  work  of 
mercy  in  him  to  come  and  see  me,  and  that  I  should  be  to 
him  like  those  monuments  that  some  philosophers  preserve 
to  make  them  remember  to  be  good  and  just.  "You  will 
come  and  see  me,"  I  said,  "  and  when  you  go  away  you  will 
say  to  yourself :  '  Trouble  does  exist  on  earth,  after  all ; ' 
your  heart  will  be  touched  by  my  sorrows,  and  mine  will 
have  enjoyed  your  felicity." 

The  letters  of  M.  de  Condorcet  are  really  charming.  If  I 
followed  my  first  impulse  I  should  write  you  all  that  I  have 
felt  about  them  ;  but  I  stop,  saying  to  myself  :  "  He  will  soon 
return,  I  will  let  him  read  them ;  he  will  laugh  at  me  and 
think  me  very  enthusiastic  —  well,  perhaps  so,  but  he  ivill  he 
here."  Mon  ami,  on  that  condition  I  would  consent  not  to 
have  common-sense  for  the  rest  of  my  life ;  but  then  you 
would  abandon  me  and  I  should  be  lost  in  the  crowd  —  well, 
stupidity  would  console  me  there.  I  think  that  during  all 
this  time  "  The  Gracchi "  must  have  been  forgotten  [tragedy 


1774]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  177 

in  verse  by  M.  de  Guibert].  But  you  will  return  to  them 
with  more  ardour  and  interest.  Mon  ami,  admire  my  transi- 
tions ;  stupidity  leads  me  to  genius,  ^ud  this  progression  is 
very  natural ;  it  is  M.  Turgot  after  the  Abbe  Terrai.  There 
are  cases  where  gradations  and  intermediaries  disappear. 

I  do  not  know  what  to  do  with  the  time  between  now 
and  Saturday ;  I  shall  make  a  little  of  it  weigh  on  you  by 
ubliging  you  to  read  me.  I  hope  —  I  promise  myself  a  long 
letter  on  Saturday.  Suppose  I  am  disappointed  !  suppose  that 
it  is  only  four  pages  long !  Oh,  then  I  should  complain. 
Mon  ami,  you  see  good  luck  has  turned  my  head ;  I  become 
almost  saucy  just  because  I  have  had  news  of  you  to-day. 
What  is  very  certain  is  that  if  others  were  in  my  secret 
they  would  know  from  my  health  and  my  whole  manner  of 
being  whether  I  have  had  a  letter  from  you.  Yes,  the  cii'cu- 
lation  of  my  blood  is  perceptibly  changed,  and  at  such  times 
it  is  impossible  for  me  to  take  part  in  anything.  But  what 
I  never  become  indifferent  to  is  the  increased  interest  that 
my  state  inspires  in  my  friends.  Mon  Dieu  !  would  they 
pity  me  if  they  saw^  into  the  depths  of  my  heart  ?  That 
usurpation  of  my  love,  was  it  not  criminal  ?  Mon  ami,  do  not 
make  my  conscience  false ;  pity  me,  console  me ;  you  have 
only  too  long  misled  me. 

I  have  a  fancy  to  send  you  the  letter  T  took  up  and  read 
before  yours  to-dav  (could  I  have  had  a  presentiment,  that 
would  not  have  been  the  order  of  my  reading )  ;  you  will  see 
from  this  letter  whether  I  have  suffered  from  your  absence. 
Yes,  I  have  made  M.  d'Alembert  very  uneasy.  The  man 
who  wTites  the  letter  knows  nothing  of  all  that  fills  my 
thoughts ;  he  thinks  me  a  victim  of  virtue  and  prejudice  ;  but 
for  the  last  three  years  he  has  seen  me  so  unhappy  that  he  is 
sometimes  inclined  to  thmk  me  mad.  He  spends  his  life  in 
making  epigi-ams  against  me  ;  but  the  fact  is,  the  point  of 


178  LETTERS  OF  [1774 

them  is  always  a  touch  of  sentiment  or  of   wrath.     Kead 
and  recognize ;  very  surely  he  is  a  man  (jf  intellect. 

Sunday,  October  30,  1774. 

1  am  notified  too  late ;  a  package  has  gone  to  the  post 
to-day ;  when  3'our  letter  came  I  had  aheady  sent  it  to  M. 
Turgot  to  be  countersigned.  I  expected  to  write  you  a  line 
after  the  arrival  of  the  postman,  and  send  it  in  the  usual 
way,  but  no  juatter.  I  hope  that  my  vi»kime  will  not  be 
lost ;  it  will  surely  be  sent  to  you,  and  with  all  the  more 
care  because  M.  Turgot's  name  will  be  seen  upon  it. 

I  think,  truly,  that  it  is  easy  to  criticise  you  without  wound- 
ing you  ;  l)ut  it  is  nt)t  so  easy  to  praise  you  as  I  feel  that 
you  deserve,  without  running  tlie  risk  of  being  thought  ex- 
aggerated, insipid,  and  munotoiiiiiis.  Well,  I  abandon  myself 
to  it,  and  will  tell  you  coarsel}-  that  your  letter  to  M.  Turgot 
is  excellent,  perfect ;  it  is  the  right  tone,  the  proper  measure ; 
in  short,  it  is  you,  and  I  know  nothing  better  or  greater  on 
earth.  I  told  you,  mon  ami,  that  henceforth  I  could  look 
only  at  that  which  made  me  raise  my  eyes ;  but  you,  you 
are  so  high  that  I  could  not  lift  them  to  you  long  without 
too  great  an  effort.  Ah !  mon  ami,  how  I  wish  you  had  a 
fortune ;  I  wish  you  had  easy  circumstances ;  I  wish  you 
were  not  forced  to  wear  out  j-our  talents,  to  wring  the  neck 
of  your  genius ;  in  short,  I  wish  you  were  not  condemned  to 
put  yourself  back  among  the  common  herd.  Yes,  on  my 
honour,  it  is  for  your  sake,  for  the  interests  of  your  fame  only, 
that  I  look  for  your  marriage ;  in  that  respect  I  can  truly 
say  wi,th  Eacine,  "  The  day  is  not  purer  than  the  depth  of 
my  heart."  All  that  means,  mon  ami,  that  if  an  excellent 
match  offered  itself,  if  you  had  one  in  view,  if  I  or  my 
friends  could  help  you,  oh  !  count  on  the  zeal,  the  activity, 
the  passion  we  would  put  into  making  it  successful;   yes, 


1774]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  179 

I  should  again  know  joy  and  pleasure,  if  I  could  see  you 
happy. 

\Miat  pretty  verses  those  are  in  your  letter !  That  need 
to  "  live  strongly "  is,  I  believe,  the  need  of  the  damned. 
That  recalls  to  me  a  speech  of  passion  that  gave  me  pleasure. 
"  If  ever,"  it  was  said  to  me,  "  if  ever  I  gi-ow  calm  again,  I 
shall  feel  myself  in  torture."  That  language  is  for  the 
use  of  only  such  persons  as  are  endowed  with  the  sixth 
sense,  soul.  Yes,  mon  ami,  I  am  fortunate  enough,  or  unfor- 
tunate enough,  to  have  the  same  dictionar}"  as  yourself.  I 
understand,  or  rather  I  feel,  your  definitions,  whereas  for 
three-fourths  of  the  time  I  do  not  comprehend  the  Chevalier. 
He  is  so  content  with  what  he  does,  he  knows  so  well  what 
he  will  do,  he  loves  reason  so  truly,  in  a  word,  he  is  so  proper 
about  everything,  that  once  I  came  near  speaking  and  wi-itiug 
to  him  as  the  Chevalier  Grandison  —  but  without  envying 
the  fate  of  Clementma  or  Miss  G  .  .  . 

You  know,  of  course,  that  the  Comte  de  Broglie  commands 
at  Metz  in  place  of  M.  de  Conflans.  Mon  ami,  there 's  a  witty 
man  ;  I  wish  he  might  be  useful  to  you,  to  you  who  have  not  his 
wit.  Apropos  of  wit,  I  must  teU  you  a  saying  of  the  Czarina 
to  Diderot.  They  often  argued ;  and  one  day  when  the  dis- 
pute was  more  lively  than  usual,  the  Czarina  stopped  short, 
saying :  "  We  are  both  too  excited  to  be  reasonable ;  your  head 
is  hot  and  mine  is  warm,  we  shall  not  know  what  we  are 
saying  —  "  "  With  this  difference,"  cried  Diderot,  "  that  you 
can  say  what  you  please  without  impropriety,  whereas  I  may 
fail  in  —  "  "  For  shame  ! "  interrupted  the  Czarina,  "  what 
difference  is  there  between  men  ? "  Mon  ami,  read  that  cor- 
rectly and  do  not  be  as  stupid  as  M.  d'Alembert,  who  could 
see  nothing  in  it  but  difference  of  sex,  whereas  the  speech 
is  only  charming  as  being  that  of  a  sovereign  speaking  to  a 
philosopher.     She  said  to  him  on  another  occasion :  "  Some- 


180  LETTERS  OF  [1774 

times  I  see  you  a  hundred  years  old,  and  then  again,  like  a 
child  of  twelve."  That  is  sweet,  and  pretty,  and  paints 
Diderot.  If  you  loved  children  a  liUle  more,  I  would  tell 
you  that  I  think  I  liave  observed  that  what  pleases  up  to  a 
certain  point  always  has  some  analogy  with  them ;  they  have 
such  grace,  such  suppleness,  so  mucli  of  Xatuie '  In  fact. 
Harlequin  is  a  composition  of  child  and  cat ;  and  what  could 
be  more  graceful. 

Do  you  know  what  vexes  me  about  that  package  that  is  run- 
ning after  you  ?  You  will  receive  so  late  the  letter  asking 
pardon  for  having  blamed  you  unjustly ;  the  post  was  guilt}-, 
not  you,  and  I  was  its  accomplice.  But  is  it  you  or  the  post 
who  are  to  blame  this  time  ?  You  write  me,  "  I  answer  your 
letters  of  the  9th  and  14th."  Why  do  you  jump,  feet 
together,  over  the  11th,  which  was  a  Tuesday?  I  have 
written  by  all  the  couriers  since  that  moment  when  I  was 
mad  with  a  fatal  madness. 

Mon  ami,  you  will  miss  a  great  day,  that  of  the  re-opening 
of  parliament.  Oh !  the  crowd  of  spectators  promise  them- 
selves great  pleasures ;  but  wise  people  like  myself  do  not  con- 
cern themselves  about  this  first  moment;  it  is  the  results, 
the  consequences  of  this  event  which  have  such  interest. 
The  question  is,  are  they  judges  or  tyrants  whom  we  are 
about  to  replace  on  the  fleurs-de-lis  ? —  You  ask  why  I  do  not 
talk  to  the  Chevalier  about  "  Orpheus."  Mon  ami,  because 
it  would  be  barbarous  to  talk  of  colours  at  the  Quinze-Vingts 
[blind  asylum].     Adieu. 

Monday,  eleven  o'clock  at  night,  November  7,  1774. 

Mon  ami,  it  seems  to  me  that  you  have  rights  over  all  the 
emotions  and  sentiments  of  my  soul.  I  owe  you  an  account 
of  all  my  thoughts ;  I  do  not  feel  assured  of  their  correctness 
until  I  communicate  them  to  you.     Listen  to  me,  therefore, 


1774]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  181 

and  judge  my  judgment,  or  rather  my  instinct ;  for  I  have 
nought  but  that  for  things  of  intellect,  of  art,  and  of  taste. 
Yes,  mon  ami,  the  Academy  of  Marseille  has  only  done 
justice  in  crowning  M.  de  Chamfort.  Ah!  mon  Dieu  !  at 
what  a  distance  now  seems  to  me  that  Eulog}'  which  gave 
me  such  pleasme,  and  will  give  me  more !  How  rich  is  this 
one  [Chamfort's  "  Eulogy  on  La  Fontaine "  ]  !  how  full  of 
intelligence,  intelligence  of  all  kinds,  refinement,  strength, 
elevation,  philosophy  !  How  lively  the  style,  how  animated 
and  rapid,  how  filled  it  is  with  happy  expressions,  how 
original  the  tone  and  turn  of  the  phrases !  In  a  word,  I 
am  truly  charmed,  and  if  I  did  not  fear  to  spoil  your  pleas- 
ure I  would  quote  to  you  some  points,  each  more  piquant 
than  the  rest.  I  recommend  to  }ou  page  14.  Tell  me, am  I 
mistaken  ?  is  it  not  full  of  the  most  exquisite  sensibility  ? 
has  he  not  ennol)led  benefactions  and  gratitude  ?  does  he  not 
express  all  the  sentiments  that  a  lofty,  sensitive,  and  impas- 
sioned soul  would  desire  to  feel  and  to  inspire  ?  Mon  ami, 
I  am  so  satisfied  with  it  that  I  could  wish  you  had  done  it ; 
and  yet  I  am  certain  that  you  could  do  better ;  you  would 
go  higher,  you  would  not  have  his  defects.  But  pronounce 
your  verdict  quickly  :  have  I  too  much  enthusiasm  ?  At  any 
rate  no  one  has  put  it  into  me ;  for  1  have  seen  and  heard 
no  one.  I  received  the  Eulogy  at  nine  o'clock ;  I  nearly  died 
of  impatience  to  be  altjue :  I  have  read  it,  and  give  you  my 
first  impressions,  at  the  risk  of  your  thinking  them  devoid  of 
common-sense. 

Let  nothing  turn  you,  in  disgust,  from  reading  to  me  what 
you  write ;  I  will  be  Molifere's  servant ;  I  will  discuss  noth- 
ing, but  I  shall  feel  all.  What  taste  and  intelligence  you 
show  in  narrowing  your  subject.  In  the  best  of  tragedies 
there  are  tedious  and  languid  passages.  You  will  avoid  these 
defects ;  the  interest  will  always  be  sustained  by  the  subject 


]82  LETTERS   OF  [1774 

and  action  of  the  l>lay.  The  mind  of  the  author  will  never 
appear,  but  the  soul  and  genius  of  M.  de  Guibert  will  fill 
and  animate  the  whole.  Mon  ami,  why  that  oath  not  to  read 
me  at  once,  immediately,  what  I  desire  so  much  to  hear  and 
feel  ?  Is  it  because  what  moves  you  is  not  what  I  would 
desire  to  know  and  think  for  the  rest  of  my  life? 

Ah  !  how  ill  you  understood  me  in  the  first  instance,  and 
how  well  you  have  since  replied  to  me  about  Lord  Shelburne  ! 
Yes,  it  is  just  that,  his  being  the  leader  of  the  Opposition, 
that  makes  me  esteem  and  like  him.  How  could  one  tiot 
be  disconsolate  at  being  born  imder  a  government  like  ours  ? 
As  for  me,  weak  and  unfortunate  being  that  I  am,  if  I  could 
be  born  again  I  would  rather  be  the  lowest  member  of  the 
House  of  Commons  than  even  the  King  of  Prussia ;  nothing 
but  Voltaire's  fame  could  console  me  for  not  having  been 
born  an  Englishman,  One  word  more  about  Lord  Shelburne 
and  I  will  never  speak  of  him  again.  How  do  you  think  he 
rests  his  brain  and  his  soul  from  the  worries  of  government  ? 
In  doing  deeds  of  beneficence  that  are  worthy  of  a  sovereign  ; 
in  creating  public  institutions  for  the  education  of  all  the 
tenants  of  his  estates,  entering  into  all  the  details  of  their 
instruction  and  comfort.  That,  mon  ami,  is  the  relaxation 
of  a  man  who  is  only  thirty-four  years  old,  and  whose  soul  is 
as  tender  as  it  is  great  and  strong.  There  is  an  Englishman 
worthy  to  have  been  the  friend  of  the  wonder  and  miracle 
of  the  Spanish  nation  [M.  de  Mora].  That  is  the  man  whom 
I  wish  you  could  have  seen ;  but  if  you  had,  you  would 
always  have  regretted  him ;  for  assuredly  he  is  not  made  to 
live  in  this  country.  He  leaves  on  the  1.3th;  he  wants  to 
see  the  re-entrance  of  our  parliament ;  meanwhile  he  is  giving 
himself  up  to  the  dissipations  of  Paris.  In  all  his  life  he 
has  never  known  that  species  of  relaxation ;  he  finds  much 
delight  and  charm  in  it.    "It  is  pleasure,"  he  said  to  me, 


1774]  MLLE.   DE  LESPINASSE.  183 

"because  it  will  not  last;  for  such  a  life  forever  would 
become  the  most  intolerable  weariness."  Hew  far  that  is 
from  a  Frenchman,  from  one  of  those  agreeable  men  at 
Court.  Ah  !  President  Montesquieu  was  right  when  he  said, 
"  The  government  makes  the  man."  A  man  gifted  with 
energy,  loftiness  of  soul,  and  genius  is  in  this  country  a  lion 
chaiued  in  a  menagerie  ;  the  sense  that  he  has  of  his  strength 
tortures  him ;  he  is  a  Patagonian  condemned  to  walk  on  his 
knees.  Mon  ami,  there  is  but  one  career  open  for  glory,  but 
it  is  noble.  It  is  that  of  the  Moliferes,  the  Eacines,  the 
Voltaires,  the  d'Alemberts,  etc.  Yes,  mon  ami,  you  must 
limit  yourself  to  that  because  the  world  so  wills  it.  Good- 
night; I  do  not  know  if  this  letter  will  start;  but  I  have 
talked  with  you,  and  I  am  satisfied. 

Sunday,  ten  o'clock  at  night,  November  13,  1774. 

Ah  !  mon  ami,  you  have  hurt  me ;  it  is  a  great  curse,  for 
you  and  for  me,  this  feeling  that  inspires  me.  You  do  right 
to  tell  me  you  have  no  need  of  being  loved  as  I  can  love. 
No,  that  is  not  according  to  your  measm'e.  You  are  so  per- 
fectly amiable  and  agi-eeable  that  you  are,  or  will  become,  the 
first  object  of  those  charming  ladies  who  put  on  their  heads 
all  that  is  inside  of  them,  and  are  so  lovable  that  they  love 
themselves  in  preference  to  all  else.  You  will  make  the 
pleasure,  you  will  crown  the  vanity  of  all  those  women.  By 
what  fatality  did  you  hold  me  to  life  only  to  make  me  die  of 
uneasiness  and  pain  ?  Mon  ami,  I  make  no  complaint,  but  I 
grieve  that  you  set  no  value  on  my  peace  of  mind  ;  that 
thought  freezes  and  tears  my  heart  by  turns. 

How  is  it  possible  to  have  a  moment's  tranquillity  with  a 
man  whose  head  is  as  bad  as  his  carriage,  who  thinks  of  no 
danger,  who  foresees  nothing,  who  is  incapable  of  punctuality, 
who  never  by  any  chance  does  what  he  has  planned ;  in  a 


184  LETTERS  OF  [1774 

word,  a  man  carried  away,  by  everything,  whom  nothing  can 
stop  or  fix  ?  Oh  !  my  God  !  is  it  in  thine  anger,  in  thy  ven- 
geance, that  thou  hast  doomed  me  to  love  and  adore  him  who 
is  the  torture  and  despair  of  my  soul  ?  —  Yes,  mon  ami,  what 
you  call  your  faults  may  perhaps  kill  me,  —  I  hope  they  may, 
—  but  nothing  can  chill  me.  If  my  will,  if  reason,  if  reflec- 
tion could  have  done  anytlung,  should  1  have  loved  you  ? 
Alas  !  at  what  a  time  was  1  pushed,  precipitated  into  this 
abyss  of  misfortune  \     I  shudder  at  it  still ! 

Good-night ;  not  once  has  my  door  been  opened  to-day  that 
my  heart  did  not  beat  ;  tliere  were  moments  when  I  dreaded 
to  hear  }our  name,  and  then  again  I  was  broken-hearted  at 
not  hearing  it.  So  many  contradictions,  so  many  conflicting 
emotions  are  true,  and  three  words  explain  them  :  /  love  ijou. 

nu. 

Your  letter  of  Thursday  morning  was  hard  and  unjust ; 
that  of  an  hour  earlier  was  overwhelming  from  the  excess  of 
truth  and  unreserve  with  which  you  tell  me  that  you  have 
never  loved  me,  and  that  henceforth  you  cannot  live  for  any 
one,  etc.  and  etc.  Do  you  know  that  such  an  avowal  turns 
my  remorse  to  shame  ?  I  cannot  think  of  myself  witliout 
horror,  and  from  you  I  turn  away  my  thoughts;  I  wish  to 
neither  judge  you  nor  hate  you. 

Yesterday  you  came  so  late,  and  were  so  eager  to  get  away 
that  you  proved  to  me  you  yielded  to  my  note;  and  that 
seemed  to  me  very  natural.  I  only  mention  this  to  let  you 
know  that  I  am  aware  that  you  will  not  be  annoyed  at  not 
seeing  me  this  morning.  I  expect  the  Archbishop  of  Aix ; 
he  has  something  he  wishes  to  say  to  me.  My  door  will  be 
closed.  In  the  afternoon  I  am  going  to  pay  visits  and  I  shall 
not  return  home  till  after  eight  o'clock.  To-morrow  I  dine 
with  the  Comte  de  C  .  .  .  and  have  visits  to  pay  untO.  eight 


1774]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  185 

o'clock.  I  tell  you  my  arrangements,  not  that  I  think  they 
will  influence  yours,  but  to  spare  you  the  trouble  of  trying  to 
see  me  or  avoid  me. 

The  person  who  disposes  of  you  and  of  your  time  will  not 
allow  you  to  give  yourself  up  to  the  disgust  you  feel  for  the 
world  and  for  society.  You  will  find  distraction,  peace,  pleas- 
ure, happiness  with  her  and  at  her  house  ;  and  you  will  no 
longer  be  afflicted  by  the  mortal  disgust  which  must  surely 
be  attached  to  the  wrong  of  deceiving  those  who  love  us. 
Ah !  it  was  not  worth  while.  You  nuist  feel  very  guilty 
towards  her ;  yield  yourself  up-  this  time  to  the  invincible 
penchant  that  allures  you ;  offend  her  no  longer  by  puttmg 
any  comparison  between  the  feeling  that  you  owe  to  her  and 
that  with  which  others  inspire  you.  Mon  Dieit !  I  know 
not  why  I  should  speak  of  what  occupies  your  mind ;  it  is, 
doubtless,  from  the  liabit  of  alwa}s  liking  to  please  you. 

We  read  last  night  the  "  Kuh)gy  of  lleasou  "  [by  Voltaire]. 
They  all  thought  it  excellent.  I  wish  you  had  heard  it.  The 
reading  did  not  finish  till  ten  o'clock. 

Eleven  at  night,  1774. 
,  I  have  read  your  note.  It  is  very  gentle,  it  is  very  honest ; 
your  conversation  was  very  harsh,  very  cruel  even.  I  was 
crushed  by  it.  Never,  no  never,  was  my  soul  so  beaten  down, 
my  body  more  weakened.  You  had  formed  the  intention  of 
never  seeing  me  again.  Well,  then,  why  change  it  ?  You 
gave  me  strength  to  accomplish  my  intention,  to  satisfy  the 
most  urgent  need  of  my  soul ;  we  should  both  have  been  re- 
lieved and  delivered;  I,  of  a  burden  which  overpowers  me, 
you,  of  the  sight  of  a  sorrow  which  annoys  you  often  and 
always  weighs  upon  you.  No,  I  have  no  thanks  to  give  you 
I  prefer  yoiu-  first  impulse  to  your  reflection.  In  doing  me 
wrong  you  gave  me  strength :   in  consoling  me,  as  I  have 


186  LETTERS   OF  [1774 

told  you  again  and  again,  you  hold  me  back,  but  you  do  not 
bind  me  to  you.  Oh !  it  is  perhaps  you  who  make  me  feel 
in  a  deeper  and  more  heart-rending  manner  the  loss  I  have 
met  with.  Nothing  would  have  led  me  to  compare  you  de- 
liberately ;  this  involuntary  thought  casts  me  often  into  de- 
spair ;  in  this  condition  "of  mind  I  know  not  which  is  the 
most  dreadful,  my  regrets  or  my  remorse.  But  what  does  all 
this  matter  to  you  ?  The  opera,  the  dissipation  and  whirl- 
wind of  society  sweeps  you  along,  and  that  is  just;  I  do 
not  complain ;  I  grieve. 

Nevertheless,  I  wish  you  would  come  here  to-morrow  after 
supper ;  you  can  then  speak  to  M.  d'Alembert,  and  perhaps  to 
M.  de  Vaines  ;  he  sends  me  word  that  he  will  probably  be  here. 
I  have  seen  M.  Turgot  this  evening ;  it  is  more  than  six 
months  since  I  have  been  tete  a  t^te  with  him.  I  was  dull, 
and  I  think  he  must  have  regretted  the  time  he  wasted  on 
me.  Good-night.  I  have  a  burning  heat ;  fever  consumes 
me.  Ah !  this  death  is  too  slow !  You  hastened  me  this 
morning ;  why  retain  me  to-night  ? 

Saturday,  eleven  at  night,  1774. 

How  wise  you  were  not  to  come  to  the  theatre.  I  have 
no  words  to  express  the  weary  disgust  T  felt ;  I  had,  besides, 
a  feeling  of  physical  discomfort  which  was  almost  pain ;  it 
ended  by  being  beyond  my  strength  to  pass  my  evening  with 
Mme.  de  Chatillon,  although  I  had  promised  her  to  do  so. 

I  feel  that  there  is  a  degree  of  unhappiness  which  takes 
from  us  the  strength  to  endure  ennui ;  it  is  dreadful  to  me 
to  be  a  passive  listener  to  trivialities,  often  revolting,  and 
nearly  always  as  stupid  as  they  are  low.  Oh !  the  detest- 
able play!  how  bourgeois  the  author  is,  what  a  common, 
limited  mind !  how  stupid  the  public  are !  what  bad  taste 
good  company  can  show  !  how  I  pity  the  unfortunate  writers 


J774]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  187 

who  are  hoping  to  acquh-e  reputation  from  the  stage !  If 
^ou  only  knew  how  the  audience  applauded !  Molifere  could 
never  have  had  a  greater  success.  Nothing  was  noble  about 
the  play  except  the  names  and  the  clothes ;  the  author  made 
Henri  lY.  and  the  Court  people  talk  in  the  style  of  a  bour- 
geois of  Saint-Denis.  It  is  true  that  he  gave  the  same  style 
to  the  peasants.  In  a  word,  this  work  [comedy  in  three  acts 
by  Colle,  entitled  "  A  Hunting  party  of  Henri  IV."]  is  to  me 
a  masterpiece  of  bad  taste  and  platitudes ;  and  the  people  in 
society  who  praise  it  seem  to  me  like  valets  saying  good  of 
their  masters. 

Have  you  news  of  your  mother  ?  is  she  better  ?  and  is 
your  father's  return  a  certainty  ?  Nothing  but  that  can 
console  me  for  your  having  left  this  faubourg.  And  you, 
mon  ami,  how  have  you  spent  your  day  ?  In  not  doing 
what  you  said  you  should,  is  not  that  so  ?  and  to-morrow 
you  will  not  work ;  always  an  activity  which  makes  a  hun- 
dred plans,  and  an  easiness  in  dropping  them  on  the  least 
pretext  —  regrets,  desires,  agitation,  but  never  any  repose. 
Oh !  mon  ami,  you  must  be  loved  before  you  are  known,  as 
you  were  by  me ;  for  after  judging  you,  it  would  be  devoting 
one's  self  to  hell  to  pin  one's  happiness  upon  you. 

I  will  tell  you  my  whole  day  to-morrow,  Sunday,  so  that 
you  may  give  me  the  moments  that  'will  least  inconvenience 
you.  First,  mass ;  then  a  visit  to  a  sick  friend  before  dinner. 
I  dine  with  Mme.  de  Chatillon ;  at  four  o'clock  I  go  to  the 
hotel  de  La  Eochefoucauld ;  then  I  shall  return  home  about 
half-past  six,  and  not  go  out  again.  Adieu,  mon  ami ;  I  love 
you,  but  I  feel  too  sad  and  too  stupid  to  know  how  to  tell 
you  so. 

Mon  ami,  may  I  ask  you,  without  offence,  to  return  me  the 
letter  of  the  Abb^  de  B  .  .  .  ?  for  I  do  not  venture  to  reclaim 
the  pages  torn  from  my  letters.     I  was  wrong  to  notice  it. 


188  LETTERS   OF  [1774 

and  by  speaking  to  you  alxmt  tliem  I  have  roused  your 
"  indignation,"  That  feeling  is  just ;  I  dare  not  complain  of 
it.  Ah  !  I  am  too  "  difficult  to  please,"  too  "  exacting,"  too 
"  crabbed."  1  have  all  the  faults  of  an  unhappy  being  who 
loves  to  desperation  and  who  has  but  one  emotion  and  one 
thought.     Adieu  again. 

Midday,  1774. 

You  did  not  tell  me,  you  did  not  write  it,  and  I  can 
prove  this  to  you.  The  hope  of  seeing  you  suffices  to  stop 
and  change  all  my  arrangements;  you  can  judge,  therefore, 
whether,  with  the  certaint}-  of  seeing  you,  I  was  likely  to 
go  out.  But  as  you  depend  on  the  arrangements  of  Mme. 
de  .  .  .  ,  }ou  can  never  foresee,  or  say  with  certamty  what 
you  will  do.  Mon  ami,  there  is  no  great  harm  in  that ;  mis- 
understandings result,  but  you  are  free,  that  is  the  important 
thing.  I  am  soiTy  you  did  not  let  yourself  be  driven  to 
where  Mme.  de  .  .  .  was  stopping.  M.  de  Saint-Lambert 
was  going  to  the  Place  Vendome  —  but  you  never  know 
what  you  want  to  do  nor  where  30U  are  going.  However, 
what  does  it  matter  ?  If  you  were  amused,  if  you  were  satis- 
fied and  happy  at  the  close  of  your  day,  you  did  well,  you 
were  right,  and  your  way  of  life  must  be  a  good  one.  Change 
nothing.  As  for  me,  I  am  sad  and  depressed.  I  wish  —  not 
to  change  my  way  of  feeling,  but  —  I  wish  I  were  annihilated, 
I  wish  I  had  been  so  on  that  day  when  I  ceased  to  be  beloved. 
Ah  !  711071  Dieu,  what  a  loss  is  mine  !  My  soul  cannot  accus- 
tom itself  to  that  dreadful  word  7iever;  it  still  gives  me  con- 
vulsions. Yesterday,  during  the  reading,  I  feared  I  should 
have  to  go  away.  I  remembered  that  the  last  time  that 
reading  was  given  he  was  present;  my  heart  was  broken.  I 
could  not  listen  to  another  word,  and  since  that  moment  I 
have  existed  only  on  those  sweet  and  cruel  memories.  Moti 
ami,  why  did  you  wrench  me  from  death  ?     The  thought  of 


1774]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  189 

death  is  all  that  calms  my  soul ;  it  is  its  need,  its  most  per- 
manent desire. 

Good-bye ;  I  know  not  how  I  can  do  it,  but,  to  my  great 
regret,  I  must  control  myself.  The  time  in  my  life  when  I 
feel  best  is  at  night ;  then  I  am  all  alone  with  my  affections. 
You  must  tell  me  —  if  you  know  it  —  what  you  expect  to 
do  the  next  few  days  ;  but  in  mercy  make  me  no  sacrifice. 
I  am  not  worthy  of  it,  and  I  should  be  left  so  unhappy. 

Saturday, 1774. 

Mon  ami,  you  never  know  what  you  want  to  do ;  I  am 
therefore  going  to  tell  you :  you  will  go  out  before  eleven 
o'clock;  you  will  pay  %isits  in  the  faubourg  Saint -H  onore ; 
then  you  will  go  and  diue  with  Mme.  de  Boufitlers.  Eeturn- 
ing  from  tliere,  you  will  go  and  write  at  the  house  of  Mme. 
de  V  .  .  .  ;  at  seven  o'clock  you  will  come  to  the  Com^die 
Frangaise  to  see  "  Henri  IV."  (which  is  the  afterpiece)  ;  you 
will  ask  for  the  box  of  the  Due  d'Aumout,  over  the  orchestra, 
next  to  the  queen;  you  will  tell  your  lacquey  to  be,  at  a 
quarter  past  eight,  at  the  great  gate  of  the  Prince's  court- 
yard, and  we  will  all  go  out  that  way  without  losing  a  mo- 
ment ;  after  which  you  will  go  and  sup  with  Mme.  de  .  .  . 

There  is  your  whole  day  well  laid  out;  change  nothing. 
Then  on  Sunday  you  will  work  all  the  morning  without 
going  out;  you  will  dine  with  ]\Inie.  de  .  .  .  ,  return  home 
at  five  to  work  again,  and  at  eight  you  will  come  to  me. 
Apply  yovrsdf,  and  take  my  advice.  Then  Monday,  dinner 
with  ]\Ime.de  V.  .  .  ,  supyjer  with  Mme.  de  .  .  .  ;  Tuesday, 
dinner  at  M.  Turgot's,  and  supper  with  Mme.  de  .  .  .  ; 
Wednesday,  dinner  with  Mme.  Geoflfrin,  and  supper  with 
Mme.  de  .  .  .  ;  Thursday,  dinner  with  Comte  de  C  .  .  .  , 
and  supper  with  Mme.  de  .  .  .  ;  Saturday,  dinner  with  Mme. 
de  .  .  .  ,  go  to  Versailles  after  dinner,  and  return  Sunday 


190  LETTERS  OF  [1774 

evening  to  spend  it  with  me.  Mon  ami,  you  will  be  the 
most  agreeable  man  in  society  if  you  do  what  is  here  pre- 
scribed to  you.  I  defy  you  to  make  a  better  plan  for  your 
pleasure  —  I  make  that,  as  in  duty  bound,  the  first  object. 

Mon  ami,  you  tell  me  that  you  wish  to  make  me  suffer; 
that  is  impossible  ;  you  are  kind,  you  have  feelings,  and  you 
know  —  what?  that  I  would  give  my. life,  more  than  that, 
I  would  vow  myself  to  sorrow  if  I  could  thus  deliver  you 
from  one  quarter  of  an  hour's  pain.  And  yet  you  wish  to 
make  me  suffer  '     Oh,  it  is  not  true  ! 

Five  o'clock,  1774. 

Mon  ami,  you  were  mad  this  morning,  but  your  madness 
was  very  charming  because  it  was  after  my  own  heart. 
I  do  not  know  how  I  happened  to  forget  to  tell  you  the 
imperative  reason  that  kept  me  at  home.  This  surprises  me 
the  more  as  I  did  not  remember  imtil  I  saw  M.  de  Vaines 
enter  my  room  at  half-past  three  o'clock.  He  had  told  me 
the  evening  before,  and  he  had  written  it  to  me,  yet  I  did 
not  remember  to  tell  you.  Mon  ami,  I  have  annoyed  you  once, 
and  you  have  hurt  me  a  hundred  times.  For  instance,  if  I 
do  not  see  you  to-night  you  will  be  cruel  and  unjust,  but 
I  shall  not  complain.  M.  Turgot  is  rather  better;  I  have 
had  news  from  him  three  times  since  I  saw  3-ou,  and  I  shall 
have  more  before  midnight ;  that  satisfies  me  without  tran- 
quillizing me. 

I  have  seen  your  Langon,  the  painter ;  he  is  handsome 
enough  to  be  painted  himself ;  but  there  is  something  silly, 
vapid,  and  conceited  about  him  which  cools  me  as  to  his 
talent.  That  man  will  never  feel  yom-  soul ;  he  may  paint 
your  features,  he  may  find  the  secret  of  rendering  a  likeness, 
but  it  will  be  without  interest  to  me.  And  yet,  how  could 
that  be?  have  I  not  in  my  heart  that  which  would  animate 


l?74i  MLLE.   DE  LESPINASSE.  191 

stone  and  make  canvas  living  ?  Mon  ami,  I  will  not  lose 
it ;  you  have  promised  me  your  portrait ;  give  it  to  me  there- 
fore ;  I  want  it. 

I  have  not  been  out ;  1  shall  see  no  one  who  will  tell  me 
of  the  ball ;  I  shall  hear  M.  Turgot  talked  of,  not  with  the 
interest  that  I  feel  in  him,  but  with  that  which  is  felt  for 
virtue,  and  through  fear  of  his  successor.  To  me  he  is  not 
the  controller-general ;  he  is  M.  Turgot,  with  whom  I  have 
been  intimate  for  seventeen  years ;  in  that  light  his  illness 
troubles  and  agitates  my  soul. 

Half-past  ten  o'clock,  1774. 

I  have  been  with  two  women,  coughing  myself  to  death ; 
I  could  not  thank  you  for  sending  me  news  of  yourself. 
You  do  well,  mon  ami,  to  stay  in  your  chimney-corner; 
your  health  and  comfort  are  far  dearer  to  me  than  my 
pleasure.  I  am  sure  you  will  accuse  me  of  temper  and 
injustice,  and  it  is  you  who  will  be  unjust ;  but  I  forgive 
you.  I  have  for  you  a  sentiment  which  is  the  principle, 
and  has  the  effects,  of  all  the  vii-tues,  indulgence,  kindness, 
generosity,  confidence,  the  yielding  up  of  self,  the  abnegation 
of  personal  interest.  Yes,  mon  ami,  I  am  all  that  when 
1  think  you  love  me ;  but  a  doubt  reverses  my  soul  and  puts 
me  beside  myself ;  and  what  is  cruel  about  it  is  that  this  is 
almost  my  habitual  condition. 

Mon  ami,  the  first  rule  for  writing  en  2'>oints  is  to  form 
one's  letters,  and,  above  all,  be  precise  ;  hence  you  will  never 
be  able  to  write  en  points.  But  I  will  let  3^ou  off  easily 
in  future.  I  feel  only  the  need  of  being  loved  day  by  day ; 
let  us  blot  from  our  dictionary  the  word  forever.  My 
soul  can  no  longer  attain  so  far.  1  am  a  hundred  years  old, 
and  I  have  under  lock  and  key  a  cure  for  the -future.  You 
see  1  have  read  your  points.     But  you,  read  these  two  pas- 


192  LETTERS   OF  [1775 

sages  from  Seneca  ;  they  have  delighted  me.  I  wished  you 
to  see  them,  and  I  have  had  them  copied.  M.  de  Mora 
had  the  same  sentiments ;  they  sustained  him  three  years  at 
the  point  of  death,  but  death  was  stronger  than  love.  Good- 
night. I  feel  sad  ;  life  hurts  me,  and  yet  I  love  you  with 
tenderness  and  passion. 

Eleven  o'clock,  1775. 

I  am  alone  only  for  a  moment.  For  the  last  two  hours  I 
have  been  trying  to  finish  that  criticism  of  the  Comte  de 
La  .  .  .  For  the  last  twelve  days  I  have  been  swept  away 
from  all  that  interests  me  most  iu  life.  Ah  !  mon  ami,  how 
stupid  dissipation  is;  how  barren  society  is  of  all  interest 
for  a  mind  preoccupied ;  how  few  conversations  there  are  for 
which  it  is  worth  the  trouble  to  leave  home !  I  am  almost 
in  a  state  of  disgust  w^ith  intellect ;  you  say  truly,  that  which 
enlightens  only,  wearies  me.  Ah  !  I  am  very  unfortunate ; 
what  I  love,  what  consoles  me,  puts  my  soul  to  the  torture 
with  trouble  and  remorse.  I  must  have  need  to  suffer,  for 
I  find  myself  constantly  desiring  that  which  does  me  harm. 
But,  mon  ami,  it  is  only  by  thought  that  you  can  comprehend 
all  this ;  and  I  ought  not  to  tell  it  to  you ;  in  fact,  I  meant 
merely  to  ask  you  to  return  to  me  the  volume  of  Montaigne 
which  you  put  in  your  pocket  a  few  days  ago, 

I  will  go  and  fetch  you  before  two  o'clock :  do  not  order  a 
carriage.  3fon  ami,  there  is  something  noble,  righteous, 
honourable  in  submitting  to  ill-fortune.  I  know  many  rich 
men  who  go  on  foot  for  their  pleasure ;  and  many  old  and 
infirm  persons  who  go  about  in  the  street  carriages.  I  am 
very  limited  myself,  mon  ami  ;  if  you  knew  how  much  little 
details  are  to  me,  what  the  happiness  that  is  bought  with 
money  would  be  to  me !  Mon  Dieu,  my  present  situation 
proves  that  I  have  utterly  disdained  fortune ;  it  has  no  doubt 
its  advantages,  but  how  many  things  are  preferable  !     Good- 


1775]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  193 

night,  mon  ami.  What  are  you  doing  at  this  moment? 
I  defy  you  to  be  better  employed  than  I ;  I  am  thinking  of 
what  I  love. 

Be  ready  before  two  o'clock. 

Midday,  1776. 

I  was  so  chilled,  so  extinct  last  night  because  you  came  so 
late,  and  because  I  have  seen  you  so  little  these  many  days, 
that  I  forgot  to  give  you  a  copy  of  that  letter  of  Mme.  Geof- 
fiin  which  you  desired.  Nor  did  I  tell  you  that  you  should 
have  a  ticket  for  that  friend  you  do  not  choose  to  name  to 
me.  If  you  are  amiable,  and  above  all  reasonable,  this  is 
how  you  will  arrange  your  day  to-morrow :  dine  at  the 
Temple,  and  you  will  there  see  Mme.  de  Boufflers ;  and  at 
six  o'clock  you  will  either  come  liere  or  go  to  the  Opera 
(I  will  let  you  know  which).  I  am  tempted  not  to  go  and 
dine  with  Comte  de  Creutz,  though  he  is  to  have,  or  flatters 
himself  he  will  have,  M.  Boucher.  I  admire  the  latter's 
talent  with  all  my  soul,  but  the  use  he  makes  of  it  wearies 
me  —  diamonds,  gold,  rainbows,  all  that  does  not  touch 
the  sensitive  portion  of  my  being ;  a  word  from  him  whom 
I  love,  his  slumber  even,  stirs  more  in  me  of  that  which 
feels  and  thinks  than  all  M.  Boucher's  factitious  images. 
Mon  ami,  I  want  to  see  you  to-day ;  come  before  supper. 
To-morrow  I  will  let  you  know  if  I  expect  you  at  the 
Opera  or  here. 

Well,  here  is  a  settled  thing:  I  will  lend  you  no  more 
manuscripts,  inasmuch  as  you  send  them  about ;  I  see  there 
is  no  safety  with  you.  But  in  spite  of  your  defects,  you  still 
have  confidence,  as  you  told  me  yesterday,  in  being  always 
sought,  always  loved,  and  by  a  thousand  more  than  you  could, 
or  would  respond  to.  Mon  Dieu  !  what  a  pity  it  is  that,  being 
so  charming,  you  deserve  so  little  to  be  loved  !  Good-bye ; 
I  am  not  stupid,  but  I  am,  perhaps,  too  truthful.     I  shall  not 

13 


194  LETTERS  OF  [1775 

go  out  to-day  till  nine  at  night.  I  will  wager  that  you  are 
roving  already.  There  are  but  three  things  of  which  you  do 
not  know  the  value,  and  which  you  consequently  fling  about : 
your  time,  your  talent,  and  your  money —  of  all  things  else, 
you  are  miserly. 

Midday,  1775. 

"  Unworthy  and  common  "  conduct  would  be  to  leave  you 
to  your  anger  and  to  the  opini<jn  that  I  wished  to  affront  you, 
Mon  ami,  know  me  better,  and  believe  that  I  could  never 
fear  being  compromised,  as  you  say,  or  even  betrayed,  lie- 
member  that  for  one  who  does  not  fear  death,  and  who,  far 
from  fearing  it,  has  never  passed  twenty -four  hours  in  the 
last  six  months  without  finding  in  herself  the  desire  and 
the  strength  to  forestall  it,  remember,  I  say,  that  in  that 
frame  of  mind  my  soul  can  know  but  one  species  of  fear, 
and  that  is  derived  from  my  tenderness  for  you;  I  fear 
to  displease  you,  I  fear  to  grieve  you ;  but,  on  my  honour, 
I  fear  nothing  for  myself ;  there  are  moments,  in  fact,  when 
I  should  like  you  to  reduce  me  to  despair.  See,  from  that, 
if  I  am  likely  to  have  those  petty  fears  which  are  roused 
only  by  the  dull  vanity  that  makes  people  desire  an  esteem 
they  do  not  deserve. 

No,  mon  ami,  I  repeat  it,  I  fear  nothing  in  the  world  but 
my  conscience  ;  and  as  I  cannot  calm  that,  nor  stifle  my  re- 
morse, I  wish  to  die ;  my  sole  regret  in  dying  would  be  to 
have  hurt  you.  From  that  sincere  avowal  you  can  judge  of 
the  feelings  that  inspire  me,  and  see  whether  your  soul  ought 
to  remain  "  ulcerated  "  by  an  emotion  condemnable  no  doubt 
if  it  were  not  the  effect  of  two  maladies  which  consume  my 
life  and  rend  my  heart.  Mon  ami,  I  have  told  you  that  you 
must  indeed  have  much,  ah !  very  much  indulgence  for  me. 
Forgive  me,  therefore,  not  my  intention,  not  my  sentiment 
(for  assuredly  they  need  no  pardon,  unless  for  the  -excess  of 


1775]  MLLE.    DE   LESPINASSE.  195 

passion  that  is  in  them),  but  forgive  a  fit  of  madness  which 
I  could  not  repress. 

Your  letter  is  unjust ;  but  it  does  not  take  from  me  the 
hope  of  still  reaching  your  heart.  Tell  me  it  is  closed  to  me 
forever  and  I  will  thank  you  ;  for  with  those  words  you  will 
break  the  sole  tie  that  holds  me  to  a  life  of,  regret  and  re- 
morse, a  life  in  which  I  can  look  for  no  other  interest  or 
pleasure  than  that  of  loving  you  without  hope  that  you 
wiD  share  my  feeling.  But  at  least  be  sure  that  I  shall 
never  trouble  your  happiness  or  your  dissipations,  never  ask 
you  for  a  moment  that  you  think  could  be  better  employed; 
you  shall  be  free  to  see  me  but  rarely,  and  without  fearing 
the  importunity  of  my  reproach. 

Mon  ami,  tell  me  again  that  you  will  "  never "  see  me 
more ;  that,  I  believe,  is  the  word  that  my  soul  craves  to 
hear.  Ah  !  no,  I  fear  nothing,  except  to  live ;  I  bid  all  na- 
ture do  its  worst ;  I  feel  myself  so  strong,  and  yet  so  feeble, 
that  I  ask  you,  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart,  to  crush  me 
wholly  or  come  to  my  assistance.     Adieu,  mon  ami. 

Eleven  o'clock,  1775. 
For  the  last  two  hours  I  have  been  waiting ;  at  last  that 
pamphlet  has  come.  Remember  that  the  "  Eulogy  of  Reason  " 
gave  you  pleasure,  and  do  not  change  that  opinion.  Mon  ami, 
in  preaching  moderation  j^our  zeal  carries  you  away ;  there  is 
no  kind  of  conversation  in  which  you  do  not  compromise 
yom'self  without  making  any  conversions  ;  but  as  I  am  not 
more  fortunate  than  you,  I  end  my  sermon  here,  and  will 
only  say  that  I  shall  be  delighted  to  see  you.  Come  early ; 
remember  it  is  eight  days  since  I  have  seen  you  ;  you  can 
imagine  how  charmed  I  was  with  your  note.  Mon  Dieu  ! 
why  do  you  put  such  warmth  and  interest  in  overcoming 
me  and  in  making  me  feel  myself  inconsistent  and  absurd. 


196  LETTERS   OF  [1775 

and,  then,  why  are  you  all  ice  to  my  soul  ?  Ah  '  why  ? 
because  you  are  true ;  because  if  you  did  not  love  me, 
you  would  have  hated  me ;  because  the  real  evil  is  that 
we  ever  met  each  otlier.  But  inasmuch  as  it  is  impossible 
to  change  the  past,  I  ask  you  to  console  me  to-day  by  coming 
early.  Good-bye ;  I  am  talking  with  M.  d'Anlezy  while 
writing  to  you;  it  is  not  comfortable. 

Midday,   1775. 

Why,  surely  I  believe  that  you  will  never  take  the  man- 
ners or  the  tone  of  any  one ;  all  which  has  true  grandeur  can 
only  lose  by  changing.  Alexander,  perhaps,  would  not  have 
given  up  his  stiff  neck;  therefore,  keep  all  you  have,  mon 
ami,  your  taste,  your  levity,  your  manners,  and,  above  all, 
your  forgetfulness  of  whatever  moves  and  interests  those 
you  say  you  love.  For  instance,  you  have  a  refinement  of 
delicacy  that  I  never  observed  in  any  one  but  you ;  you 
will  not  come  and  see  me,  you  say,  because  not  to  see  me 
alone  is  a  restraint  upon  you  !  Truly,  that  is  touching  ten- 
derness, especially  when  you  are  at  liberty  to  come  and  see 
me  in  the  mornings  or  at  four  o'clock ;  those  are  times  when 
I  am  almost  sure  to  be  alone.  But,  mon  ami,  it  is  much 
more  delicate  not  to  come  at  all,  and  I  give  my  consent,  for 
I  no  longer  wish  you  to  make  sacrifices  for  me, ^ — -which 
you  have  no  desire  to  make.  Your  excessive  interest  will 
content  itself  with  two  words  :  "  I  suffer." 

February,  1775. 
They  are  coming  to  fetch  me ;  I  shall  not  see  you,  and  not 
know  whether  you  want  me  to  call  for  you.  Do  you  know 
they  are  giving  "Tom  Jones"  [comic  opera],  with  "False 
Magic "  [the  same,  by  Marmontel]  ?  That  will  give  you 
pleasure,  and  your  pleasure  will  make  mine.  Therefore  give 
this  evening  to  Mme.  .  .  .  and  come  to  the  play  with  me 


1775]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  197 

to-morrow.  But  decide  ;  for  your  place  has  many  applicants. 
You  had  the  kindness  to  deprive  me  last  week  of  two  even- 
ings on  which  I  had  counted ;  that  wound  up  my  soul  to 
generosity,  and  it  is  without  rancour  that  I  give  you  your 
liberty  to-night.  I  still  feel  the  crisis  of  yesterday  ;  I  need 
solitude,  and  composure  ;  with  you  I  should  find  only  trouble. 
Go,  therefore,  and  pass  the  evening  with  what  you  love, 
what  pleases  you,  and  what  loves  you,  and  leave  me  to  en- 
gulf myself,  inebriate  myself  with  a  sorrow  which  is  better 
than  all  the  pleasures  of  those  persons  with  whom  you  were 
last  night.  Yes,  vice  is  less  dangerous  than  those  souls  of 
papier-mache,  those  vacant  brains.  Vice  revolts  and  makes 
us  indignant,  whereas  those  persons  seduce  you  by  their 
manners  and  their  tone,  and  will  extinguish  forever  mind 
soul,  and  talent.  Ah  !  mon  Dieu  !  do  not  give  M.  Roucher  the 
disgust  of  being  judged  by  those  still-borns,  or  rather  those 
living  dead.  They  cannot  understand  his  soul,  and  they 
will  wound  him  by  the  insolence  with  which  they  will  speak 
to  him  of  his  poverty.  You  would  do  well  to  tell  them  that 
with  his  talents  a  man  is  richer,  greater,  happier  than  any 
one  of  them.  I  must  tell  you  a  generosity  of  M.  de  B  .  .  . 
which  will  give  you  the  measure  of  his  soul,  or  of  what 
represents  it.  ]\1.  Turgot  is  to  hear  M.  Roucher;  he  will 
feel  him ;  he  is  virtuous,  he  wUl  serve  him  without 
urging. 

I  think  you  do  well  to  go  to  ^^ersailles ;  you  ought  to 
speak  once  of  that  affair,  and  then  say  no  more.  Mme. 
Geofifrin  has  sent  me  an  engraving  for  you.  I  send  it  that 
you  may  enjoy  it  all  the  sooner.  The  woman  is  beautiful, 
but  cold  as  a  Muse.  Send  your  copy  to  Mme.  Geoffrin ;  she 
is  in  a  hurry.  "When  persons  are  very  young  or  very  old 
they  want  to  enjoy  instantly.  I  have  been  very  unwell  to- 
day, but  that  is  now  the  habit  of  my  life;  people  should  not 


198  LETfERS   OF  [1775 

be  asked  U)  pity  ills  that  last  forever ;  it  is  enough  if  we  our- 
selves are  endured  with  them.     Good-night. 

Seven  o'clock,   1775. 

Last  evening  at  this  hour  T  expected  you,  mon  ami,  and  I 

suffered  when  you  did  not  come ;  to-day  my  soul  is  depressed 

and  sad  because  it  is  not  sustained  by  the  hope  of  seeing 

you.     What  I  feel  recalls  to  me  tho.se  verses  of  M.  de  La 

Harpe  :  — 

"  Ah !  why  can  I  no  longer  await  her, 
E'en  though  she  comes  not  ?  " 

3fori  ami,  I  pity  you  for  being  unable  to  share  the  feelings 
that  possess  me ;  you  would  know  happiness  —  the  happiness 
which  gives  an  idea  of  heaven,  and  conveys  strength  to  pur- 
chase heaven  by  the  tortures  of  hell.  Yes,  I  feel  it,  my  soul 
is  made  only  for  excesses :  to  love  feebly  is  impossible  to  me ; 
but  also,  if  you  do  not  respond  to  me,  if  my  soul  cannot  com- 
pel yours  to  follow  it,  if  you  wish  me  to  live  a  divided  half, 
if  it  sufhces  you  to  be  agitated  and  never  happy,  I  feel  a 
vigour  still  within  me  to  renounce  you  wholly.  Mon  ami,  you 
know  it :  each  time  that  we  feel  the  strength  and  even  the 
desire  to  die,  we  can  claim  all,  exact  all ;  we  do  not  give  our- 
selves time  to  deserve,  to  acquire  by  slow  means  what  we 
need  to  obtain  at  once.  It  is  not  the  price  of  my  happiness 
that  I  stake  on  being  loved  by  you  ;  it  is  that  of  my  life. 
It  would  be  shameful,  therefore,  to  deceive  me,  and  it  would 
be  generous  to  deprive  me  of  all  hope. 

But  it  was  not  one  word  of  all  this  that  I  wished  to  say 
when  I  took  up  my  pen.  See  how  free  we  are  when  our 
souls  are  tossed !  I  meant  to  warn  you  not  to  come  to- 
morrow before  midday,  because  I  have  just  remembered  I 
shall  have  a  coiffeur.  It  would  be  odious  to  me  to  see  you 
with  that  appendage,  and  I  shall  not  be  free  from  him  till 
twelve  or  half-past. 


1775]    ,  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  199 

Be  vexed  if  you  like,  but  I  cannot  express  to  you  how 
glad  I  am  that  you  went  away  this  morning  when  you  did ; 
another  ten  minutes  and  I  do  not  know  what  would  have 
become  of  me.  M.  de  Magallon  came  in,  and  shortly  after 
his  departure  I  had  a  violent  attack  of  convulsions ;  my 
bodily  frame  can  no  longer  sustain  the  emotions  of  my  soul. 
This  does  not  alarm  me  nor  make  me  uneasy ;  I  fear  neither 
pain  nor  the  end  of  pain;  but,  mon  ami,  explain  to  me  what 
gives  this  strength  at  the  height  of  misery.  Is  it  that  situa- 
tions of  despair  fortify  and  elevate  the  heart  ?  If  so,  we 
should  bear  our  fate  and  make  no  moan. 

A  conversation  is  going  on  about  me  in  which  I  am  not 
tempted  to  take  part,  but  it  disturbs  me.  However  dissi- 
pated you  may  have  been  to-day,  whatever  pleasures  you 
may  have  had,  I  do  not  envy  you;  I  have  been  in  better 
company.  I  have  been  absorbed  in  "  Catinat"  [eulogy  written 
by  M.  de  Guil)ert].  I  have  re-read  a  part  of  it  and  I  am 
more  than  ever  charmed,  —  more  satisfied  than  I  can  express. 
To  a  certainty,  the  author  will  go  far.  It  is  not  enough  to 
say  that  he  has  talent,  soul,  mind,  genius ;  he  has  what 
is  missing  in  almost  all  good  things,  that  eloquence,  that 
warmth  that  makes  us  feel  before  we  judge.  This  is  what 
enables  me  to  praise  without  presumption,  and  approve  with 
as  much  truth  as  if  I  had  mind  and  taste.  I  cannot  analyze 
or  expatiate  on  anythmg,  but  what  is  fine  uplifts  my  soul, 
and  my  judgment  is  right,  whatever  you  may  say.  Adieu  — 
adieu. 

■  Ten  o'clock  at  night,  1775. 
Mon  ami,  how  good  you  are,  how  amiable  you  are  for 
wishing  to  compensate  me  for  what  I  lost  this  morning.  If 
you  also  knew  how  I  waited  for  you,  how  I  removed  and 
sent  away  all  that  could  trouble  my  pleasure,  how  each  car- 
riage that  passed  gave  me  hope,  and  then  how  it  hurt  my 


200  LETTERS   OF  [1775 

soul !  Mon  Dieu !  how  1  love  you !  liow  guilty  I  feel  for 
having  wounded  you !  No,  mon  ami,  do  not  forgive  me ; 
punish  me;  add,  if  possible,  to  my  pain,  my  regret.  Ex- 
treme unhappiness  puts  us  beside  ourselves.  Yes,  it  dis- 
orders the  mind,  leads  it  astray,  makes  us  ill  —  it  was  all 
that  that  led  me  to  offend  you.  For  the  last  three  days  I 
have  felt  this  misfortune  only,  and  I  think  1  should  have 
died  of  it  if  you  had  not  come  to  my  assistance.  Ah  !  mon 
ami,  you  uttered  words  which  still  make  me  shudder,  which 
wring  my  heart :  I  "  turned  you  to  ice "  —  you  had  to 
"  struggle  with  yourself  to  see  me."  Oh,  heaven  !  why  am  I 
not  dead  before  I  hear  such  words  ?  Tell  me  not  that  I  am 
doomed  to  some  day  hate  you,  Mon  ami,  I  appeal  from  that 
judgment ;  I  make  oath  by  you  whom  I  love,  by  all  that  is 
most  sacred  to  me,  not  to  survive  one  hour  that  horrible  emo- 
tion. I  hate  you !  —  see  the  passion,  the  tenderness  that 
inspire  my  heart.  Ah !  if  I  were  fated  to  love  you  no 
longer,  on  that  day,  O  God !  how  sweet  it  would  be  to  die ! 
Heaven  is  my  witness  that  I  hold  to  life  by  you  alone  ;  and 
all  that  friends  so  prodigally  give  me  of  care,  of  kindness, 
friendship,  interest,  would  not  have  the  power  to  keep  me 
till  the  morrow. 

Mon  ami,  M.  de  Mora  is  ever  by  my  side,  and  T  see  you 
ever.  If  my  soul  should  lose  from  sight  that  succour,  that 
support,  I  could  not  exist  one  hour.  Ah !  read  my  heart  to 
its  depths ;  you  will  see  there  more  than  I  can  tell  you,  and 
better.  Can  we  ever  express  what  we  feel,  what  inspires  us, 
what  makes  us  breathe,  what  is  most  necessary  to  us,  yes, 
more  necessary  than  air  ?  for  I  have  no  need  to  live,  but  I 
have  need  to  love  you.  Ah !  mon  ami,  how  far  away  from 
me  you  are !  You  said  yesterday  that  I  had  "  begun  by 
wounding  you  and  ended  by  turning  you  to  ice."  I  answer : 
"  You  had  wounded  me  ;  "  and  I  add  :  "  You  may  despise  me. 


1775]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  201 

you  may  hate  me,  but  still  I  shall  tind  within  me  the  pas- 
sion with  which  to  love  you."  Yes,  mon  ami,  I  repeat  it : 
death  is  in  my  thoughts  a  score  of  times  a  day,  and  my  soul 
cannot  conceive  the  idea  of  loving  you  less.  Ah  '  know  me 
wholly ;  see  within  my  soul  the  passion  that  consumes  me 
and  that  I  dare  not  make  you  see.  It  is  not  my  remorse,  of 
which  I  speak  to  you  sometimes  ;  it  is  not  my  sori'ow,  which 
I  wail  to  you  so  often ;  mon  ami,  it  is  an  ill  which  impairs 
my  reason  and  my  health,  —  an  ill  which  renders  me  unjust, 
distrustful,  which  makes  me  utter  things  of  which  I  have  a 
horror.  How  could  I  have  been  so  beside  myself  as  to  tell 
you  that  I  had  a  bad  opinion  of  you  ?  Is  that  in  nature  ? 
could  that  thought  have  been  within  my  heart  ?  Do  we  adore, 
do  we  pay  worship  to  that  which  does  not  seem  to  us  a  god  ? 
Mon  ami,  my  brain  and  soul  must  have  been  overwi-ought  to 
a  very  high,  a  very  rare  degree,  to  be  as  guilty  as  I  have 
been.  Mon  Dieu !  I  was  loved  as  I  love  you,  and  by  the 
most  perfect  of  human  bemgs ;  and  now  you  have  the  force 
to  say  to  me  that  I  have  never  loved  you,  that  my  sentiment 
is  hatred  !  Yes,  it  is  true,  I  hated  —  but  it  was  myself,  and 
for  the  irresistible  emotion  that  carried  me  away.  Mon  ami, 
consider  the  matter  well,  and  although  you  have  been 
much  loved  no  doubt,  you  will  find  that  no  person  ever  loved 
you  with  greater  strength,  more  tenderness,  more  passion, 
than  I. 

Midnight,  February  6,  1775. 

Well !  did  I  not  tell  you  so,  mon  ami  ?  I  have  not  seen 
you  and  I  shall  not  see  you.  Ah  !  how  sad  it  is  to  foresee  cor- 
rectly, and  how  son-owful  to  show  regrets  to  tb(jse  who  do  not 
share  them  '  I  know  not  why  I  felt  so  keenly  that  you  would 
fail  me.  No  one  but  "  Iphigenia  "  [Gluck's  opera]  had  more 
company  this  afternoon  than  there  was  in  my  room  ;  I  am 
crushed  with  fatigue.     First,  I  had  begun  by  going  to  spend 


202  LETTERS   OF  [1775 

an  hour  with  M.  Turgot ;  then  another  hour  with  Mme.  de 
Chatillon ;  that  made  many  stairs  to  mount,  and  I  was  tired 
out  on  getting  home.  I  had  promised  to  spend  the  evening 
at  Saint-Joseph's  [the  ■Duchesse  de  Chatillon  lived  at  the 
same  convent  as  Mme.  du  DeffandJ,  but  I  had  not  the  strength 
for  it.  I  will  go  to-morrow,  if  my  visit  to  the  Marais  leaves 
me  any  courage. 

Before  dinner,  I  am  going  to  see  the  automatons,  which 
are  amazing,  so  they  say  !  ^  When  I  went  into  society  I  did 
not  have  such  curiosity ;  two  or  three  assemblies  there  give 
satiety ;  but  these  of  the  rue  de  Cldry  are  better  worth  going 
to  ;  they  act  and  do  not  talk.  Go  and  see  them  on  your  way 
to  the  Marais,  where  I  will  tell  you  when  I  can  have  the 
Due  d'Aumont's  opera-box.  I  am  to  have  it  either  to- 
morrow or  Tuesday ;  I  should  prefer  to-morrow  because  we 
shall  have  M.  Eoucher  on  Tuesday.  But,  mon  ami,  in  some 
way  or  other  I  must  see  you  to-morrow,  and  for  long.  Mme. 
de  Chatillon  does  not  think  you  guilty  of  negligence ;  she 
asked  me  to-day  if  your  retreat  would  last  much  longer. 
You  can  easily  believe  that  I  told  her  it  was  quite  ab- 
solute, that  you  had  seen  no  one  — =  for  what  women  like 
is  to  be  preferred.  Few  persons  need  to  be  loved,  and 
that  is  fortunate.  They  dare  to  say  they  love,  and  they 
are  calm  and  dissipated  !  that,  assuredly,  is  fine  knowledge 
of  sentiment  and  passion  !  Poor  people !  we  must  praise 
them  as  we  do  the  Liliputians;  they  are  very  pretty,  very 
dainty,  very  nice.  Adieu,  mon  ami.  The  confidence  you 
showed  me  last  night  in  relation  to  your  mother's  letter 
was  very  charming. 

1  The  automatons  were  made  by  Jacques  Droz,  a  young  man  of  twenty, 
a  native  of  Neuf  chatel,  Switzerland ;  one  figure  was  that  of  a  boy  seated  at 
a  table,  writing;  he  dipped  his  pen  in  the  ink  and  wrote  whatever  the  spec- 
tators dictated  to  him.  Marie  Antoinette  went  to  see  them  the  same  week 
as  Mile,   de  Lespinasse.  —  Fr.  Ed, 


1775]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  203 

Midnight,  February  10,  1775. 
Midnight  strikes :  mon  ami,  I  have  just  been  struck  by  a 
remembrance  which  freezes  my  blood.  It  was  on  the  10th  of 
February  of  last  year  that  I  was  intoxicated  with  a  poison, 
the  effects  of  which  still  last.  Even  at  this  moment  it  alters 
the  circulation  of  my  blood ;  it  sets  my  heart  to  beating  with 
greater  violence ;  it  recalls  to  it  its  heart-breaking  regrets. 
Alas !  by  what  fatality  must  the  sentiment  of  the  keenest, 
sweetest  pleasure  be  allied  to  a  misfortune  so  crushing  ?  ^ 
What  a  dreadful  conjunction !  How  shall  I  tell  it,  recalling 
that  moment  of  horror  and  pleasure  ?  1  saw  approaching  me 
a  young  man  whose  eyes  were  filled  with  interest  and  sensi- 
bility ;  his  face  expressed  sweetness  and  tenderness  ;  his  soul 
seemed  agitated  by  passion.  At  the  sight,  I  felt  possessed  by 
a  sort  of  terror,  mingled  with  pleasure  ;  I  dared  to  raise  my 
eyes  and  fix  them  on  him  ;  I  approached  him ;  my  senses  and 
my  soul  froze.  I  saw  him  preceded,  environed,  as  it  were,  by 
Sorrow  in  a  mourning  garment ;  she  stretched  out  her  arms  ; 
she  tried  to  repulse  me,  to  stop  me  ;  I  felt  myself  drawn  on- 
ward by  a  fatal  attraction.  In  my  trouble  I  said  :  "  Who  art 
thou  ?  0  thou  who  fillest  my  soul  with  so  much  cliarm  and 
terror,  such  sweetness  and  such  alarm,  what  tidings  do  you 
bring  me  ?  "  —  "  Unhappy  one,"  she  said,  with  a  sombre  air 
and  a  mournful  accent,  "  I  am,  and  I  will  make  thy  fate  ;  he 
who  inspired  your  life  has  just  been  struck  by  death."  Yes, 
ni07i  ami,  I  heard  those  fatal  words ;  they  are  giaven  on  my 
heart ;  it  quivers  still,  and  it  loves  you  ! 

In  mercy,  let  me  see  you  to-morrow  ;  I  am  filled  with  sad- 
ness and  trouble.     Ah  !  mon  Dieu  !  it  is  a  year  to-day,  at  just 
this  hour,  that  M.  de  Mora  was  struck  down  by  that  mortal 
'  blow  ;  and  I,  at  the  same  moment,  two  hundred  leagues  apart 

1  Reference  to  the  hemorrhage  which  attacked  M.  de  Mora  on  that 
day.  -  -  Tr. 


204  LETTERS  OF  [1775 

from  him,  was  more  cruel,  more  culpable  than  the  ignorant 
barbarians  who  killed  him.  I  die  of  regret ;  my  eyes  and  my 
heart  are  full  of  tears.  Adieu,  mon  ami,  I  ought  never  to  have 
loved  you. 

Six  o'clock  in  the  morning,  1774; 

Do  you  remember  your  last  words  ?  do  you  remember  the 
condition  into  which  you  put  me,  and  in  N\'hich  you  believed 
you  left  me  ?  Well,  1  wish  to  tell  you  that,  returning  quickly 
to  myself,  I  7-ose  again,  and  I  saw  myself,  not  one  hair's- 
breadth  lower  than  before  when  I  stood  erect,  at  my  full 
height.  And  what  will  astonish  you,  perhaps,  is  that  of  all 
the  impulses  that  have  drawn  me  to  you,  the  last  is  the  only 
one  for  which  I  have  no  remorse.  Do  you  know  why  ? 
Because  there  is  an  excess  in  passion  which  justifies  the  soul 
that  has  equally  a  horror  of  what  is  vile  and  unworthy.  In 
that  abandonment,  that  last  degiee  of  abnegation  of  myself 
and  of  all  personal  interests,  I  proved  to  you  that  there  is  but 
one  misfortune  on  earth  that  seems  to  me  unbearable  —  to 
offend  you  and  lose  you.  That  fear  would  make  me  give  my 
life :  why,  then,  should  I  regret  to  have  proved  and  uttered 
forcibly  a  feeling  which  has  made  me,  for  a  year  past,  live 
and  die  ?  No,  mon  ami,  in  spite  of  your  words,  I  do  not  feel 
humiliated  ;  and  that  is  because  I  think  you  honourable  and 
myself  not  culpable.  Do  not  suppose  that  I  make  to  myself  a 
false  conscience,  or  that  I  seek  to  justify  myself ;  no,  mon 
ami ;  the  sentiment  that  inspires  me  disdains  pride  and  in- 
sincerity ;  but  if  you  blame  me,  I  hold  myself  condemned 
forever ;  your  esteem  is  dearer  to  me  than  my  own. 

I  am  so  sure  of  your  honour,  I  know  so  well  your  kind- 
ness, that  I  am  sure  before  you  slept  you  promised  yourself 
to  see  me  to-day.  I  thank  you  for  that  intention ;  but  I 
ask  you  not  to  see  me  ;  show  delicacy  and  pity  in  this.  I 
need  to  keep  my  soul  in  repose ;  you  lead  it  to  excesses  it 


1775]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  205 

has  never  yet  known,  and  to  which  my  thought  alone  could 
not  attain.  Ah!  mon  Dieu !  how  much' a  great  happiness 
is  to  be  dreaded  !  it  has  no  limit  and  no  measure.  Ah !  I 
need  repose;  leave  me  to  calm  myself.  I  shall  take  two 
grains  of  opium ;  by  numbing  my  blood  my  thoughts  will 
be  dulled,  my  soul  will  sink,  and  perhaps  I  shall  forget 
that  you  have  not  replied  to  my  heart,  that  you  did  not  say 
one  word  to  comfort  and  reassure  me  thi"oughout  the  whole 
of  last  evening. 

Adieu,  mon  ami  ;  do  not  come  :  and  after  this  request,  be 
not  annoyed  that  my  door  is  closed ;  it  will  be  so  to  every 
one.  I  am  so  feeble  that  the  effect  of  opium  will  numb 
all  my  faculties  —  but  it  suspends  my  woe ;  it  takes  away 
from  me  that  portion  of  my  being  which  feels  and  suffers. 
Adieu !  I  part  myself  from  you  for  twenty-four  hours.  If, 
by  a  misfortune  I  do  not  wish  to  think  of,  last  evening  had  — 
no,  I  dare  not  continue. 

Mon  ami,  I  see  a  means  of  repairing  all;  I  will  punish 
myself :  I  know  how  to  suffer,  and  I  will  condemn  myself 
to  never  say  to  you  again  what  I  now  pronounce  with  ten- 
derness and  passion  :   /  love  you. 

Eleven  o'clock,  1775. 

Judge  of  my  trouble :  I  feel  a  mortal  repugnance  to  open- 
ing your  letter;  if  I  did  not  fear  to  offend  you  I  should 
send  it  back.  Something  tells  me  it  will  irritate  my  sorrow, 
and  I  wish  to  spare  myself.  The  continued  suffering  of  my 
body  depresses  my  soul ;  I  still  have  fever,  and  I  have  not 
closed  my  eyes ;  I  can  no  more.  In  mercy  —  for  pity's  sake, 
torture  no  longer  a  life  that  is  almost  extinct ;  every  instant 
of  which  is  given  over  to  sorrow  and  regret.  I  do  not  blame 
you ;  I  exact  nothing ;  you  owe  me  nothing ;  for,  in  truth, 
I  have  not  had  an  impulse,  not  a  sentiment,  to  which  I  have 
consented ;  and  when  I  did  have  the  misfortune  to  yield  to 


206  LETTERS  OF  [1775 

them,  I  have  always  detested  the  strength,  or  the  weakness, 
that  dragged  me  on.  You  see  that  you  owe  me  no  gratitude, 
and  that  I  have  no  right  to  reproach  you.  Be  free,  therefore ; 
return  to  what  you  like,  to  what  may  suit  you  better  than  you 
think,  perhaps.  Leave  me  to  my  sorrow ;  leave  me  to  occupy 
my  heart,  free  from  distraction,  with  the  sole  object  that  I 
adore,  whose  memory  is  dearer  to  me  than  all  that  remains 
on  earth.  Mo7i  Dieu  !  I  ought  not  to  weep  for  him,  I  ought 
to  follow  him :  it  is  you  who  oblige  me  to  live,  you  who 
cause  the  torture  of  a  being  whom  sorrow  consumes  while 
she  employs  her  last  remaining  strength  in  imploring  death. 

Ah !  you  do  too  much,  and  not  enough  for  me.  As  I  told 
you  last  week,  you  make  me  exacting,  difficult  to  satisfy ; 
giving  all,  one  needs  to  obtain  something.  But,  I  say  it 
again,  I  pardon  you,  I  do  not  hate  you ;  and  it  is  not  from 
generosity  that  I  pardon  you,  it  is  not  from  kindness  that  I 
do  not  hate  you ;  it  is  because  my  soul  is  weary,  it  faints 
with  fatigue.  Ah  !  'inon  ami,  leave  me ;  never  tell  me  again 
that  you  love  me  ;  that  balm  has  become  a  poison ;  you 
soothe  and  tear  open  my  wound  at  the  same  instant.  Oh ! 
how  you  hurt  me  !  how  heavy  is  life  upon  me !  —  and  yet 
how  I  love  you,  and  how  grieved  I  should  be  did  I  fill  your 
heart  with  sadness.  Mon  ami,  your  soul  is  too  divided,  too 
scattered,  for  true  pleasure  ever  to  enter  it. 

You  wish  that  I  should  see  you  to-night  ?  then  come.  The 
kind  Condorcet  has  stayed  with  me,  for  I  was  almost  dead. 
I  have  detained  your  messenger  because  Tenon  [surgeon] 
came  and  interrupted  me ;  he  found  that  I  still  have  fever. 

February  28,  eleven  o'clock,  1775. 

When  one  treasures  kindness,  above  all  when  we  love, 
we  ought  not  to  be  hard  to  satisfy,  nor  yet  unjust.  Therefore, 
mon  ami,  I  do  not  blame  you,  I  do  not  complain.     Ah !  no, 


1775]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  207 

you  do  no  wrong ;  the  neglect  in  which  you  left  me  to-day 
was  surely  involuntary ;  you  will  have  blamed  yourself  for 
it,  and  perhaps  you  have  had  the  kindness  to  say  in  your 
heart,  "  She  sufiers,  and  it  is  I  who  have  caused  her  suffer- 
ing." Moil  ami,  if  your  heart  felt  those  words  you  are  too 
much  punished  and  I  am  too  well  avenged.  But  shall  I  not 
be  happier  to-morrow  ?  shall  I  not  dine  with  you  ?  shall  I 
not  see  you  ?  I  expect  to  go  out  to  see  M.  Turgot  Thursday ; 
I  have  proposed  to  M.  de  Vaines  to  drive  me  to  Versailles, 
and  you  too,  if  that  will  suit  you.  If  this  arrangement  is 
not  carried  out.  Baron  Sickingen,  the  envoy  of  the  Elector 
Palatine,  has  proposed  to  take  me.  M.  de  Condorcet  and 
M.  d'Alembert  go  to  Versailles  to-morrow ;  the  latter  is  to 
read  to  M.  Turgot  the  Eulogies.  M.  Eoucher  repeated  to 
him  to-day  his  poem.  There  are  two  good  days  for  him  ;  he 
can  talk  little  and  have  some  pleasure. 

Mon  ami,  if  you  will  not  think  me  puffed  up  with  pride, 
like  the  frog,  I  will  tell  you  that  M.  Turgot  has  begged  me 
to  bring  him*  my  prccieuse  rhapsodies,  and  I  have  sent  him 
word  that  on  Thursday  such  good  fortune  shall  not  fail  him. 
I  have  had  news  from  him  hourly ;  the  Comte  de  Schomberg 
has  written  to  me  three  times,  always  reassuringly,  while 
telling  me  the  truth. 

I  dined  to-day  tete  a  tete  with  a  person  who  is  imhappy, 
consequently,  there  was  interest.  Afterwards,  at  three  o'clock, 
I  went  to  take  a  turn  in  the  Tuileries.  Oh !  how  beautiful 
the  gardens  were  !  how  divine  the  weather  !  the  air  I  breathed 
served  to  calm  me  ;  I  loved,  I  regretted,  I  desired,  but  all  those 
feelings  bore  the  imprint  of  sweetness  and  melancholy.  Oh  ! 
m,on  ami,  that  way  of  feeling  has  greater  charm  than  the  ardour 
and  throes  of  passion  —  yes,  I  think  I  am  revolted  by  them; 
I  will  no  longer  \o\e  forcibly ;  I  will  love  gently — but  never 
feebly ;  you  can  well  believe  that,  since  it  is  you  I  love. 


208  LETTERS  OF  [1775 

I  returned  home  at  half-jjast  fdur  and  was  alone  till  six. 
Do  you  know  how  I  filled  the  time  while  I  sat  there  waiting  ? 
in  re-reading  your  letters  since  the  1st  of  January ;  I  put 
them  in  order ;  thus,  though  not  seeing  you,  I  was  vividly, 
tenderly  occupied  by  you.  After  that  came  six  or  seven 
persons  who  devoted  the  rest  of  their  Mardi-gras  to  me. 
They  were  tired  of  amusing  themselves  and  wanted  the 
pleasure  of  conversation,  freedom,  and  repose,  and  we  enjoyed 
them  all  —  for  I  was  still  sustained  by  the  hope  of  seeing 
you ;  I  hojjed.  Ah  !  when  I  lieard  the  clock  strike  nine  I 
turned  to  stone,  and  my  silence  warned  every  one  to  leave 
me  at  half-past  nine  — 

But  I  am  mad,  or  rather  imbecile,  to  fatigue  you  with  a 
day  in  which  you  would  not  take  an  instant's  part.  Adieu, 
mon  ami  ;  let  me  know  what  you  wish  to  do  and  can  do  on 
Thursday.  I  think  you  too  much  a  man  of  society  to  miss 
the  ball  to-night ;  as  for  me  I  prefer  to  breathe  the  soft,  pure 
air  of  the  Tuileries,  at  an  hour  when  I  can  be  almost  alone 
there.  That  is  because  my  soul  can  furnish  me  with  more 
than  all  your  wit  and  all  your  talent  can  furnish  you. 
Adieu. 

Eleven  at  night,  1775. 

Mon  ami,  the  harm  dates  farther  back.  Do  you  remember 
your  words,  "  Oh  !  it  is  not  Mme.  de  .  .  .  whom  you  have  to 
fear,  but  — "  and  the  tone  with  which  you  said  it,  and  the 
silence  that  followed,  the  reticence,  the  resistance  ?  What 
more  was  needed  to  put  trouble  and  pain  into  an  agitated 
soul  ?  Join  to  that  your  desire  to  leave  me,  —  and  for  whom 
were  you  so  hurried  ?  Could  I  calm  myself  ?  I  loved  you, 
I  suffered ;  I  blame  my  own  folly.  I  went  to  your  door 
this  morning  with  sadness  in  my  soul ;  I  saw  you,  and  pleas- 
ure was  mingled  with  the  melancholy  that  filled  me.  I  saw 
the  eagerness  with  which  you  endeavom-ed  to  confute  me, 


1775]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  209 

and  I  believed  all  that  you  suppose  I  did.  I  had  heard 
you  named.  .  .  . 

Well,  riion  ami,  I  ask  your  pardon  for  suspecting  you 
unjustly;  distrust  is  attached  to  unhappiness.  How  many 
times  might  I  not  have  complained  !  how  many  times  have 
I  hidden  my  tears  from  you  !  Ah  !  I  see  it  too  plainly !  we 
cannot  retain  or  recover  a  heart  led  away  by  a  new  penchant. 
I  tell  this  to  myself  ceaselessly ;  sometimes  I  think  myself 
cured;  then  you  appear  before  me,  and  all  is  destroyed. 
Reflection,  resolutions,  misery,  all  lose  their  force  at  your 
first  word.  I  see  no  haven  but  death,  and  never  did  any 
unhappy  being  invoke  it  with  more  fervour. 

All !  mon  ami,  my  misfortune  is  that  you  have  no  need  to 
be  loved  as  I  love.  One  half  of  my  soul  I  retain ;  its  warmth, 
its  emotion  woidd  importune  you,  extinguish  you ;  the  fire 
that  does  not  warm  is  not  wanted.  Ah  !  if  you  could  know, 
if  you  could  read  how  I  once  made  a  strong,  impassioned 
soul  enjoy  the  pleasure  of  being  loved !  He  compared  it 
with  what  had  loved  him  and  loved  him  still ;  and  he  said 
to  me  constantly,  "  They  are  not  worthy  to  be  your  scholars ; 
your  soul  is  warmed  by  the  sun  of  Lima,  and  my  compatriots 
seem  born  beneath  the  snows  of  Lapland."  And  it  was  from 
Madrid  that  he  wrote  me  that!  3fon  ami,  he  was  not  prais- 
ing me ;  he  was  enjoying ;  and  I  do  not  feel  that  I  am 
praising  myself  when  I  tell  you  that  in  loving  you  to  mad- 
ness I  am  giving  you  only  that  which  I  cannot  keep  or 
withhold. 

I  have  just  been  interrupted  by  a  letter  from  M.  de  Vaines. 
It  makes  me  unea«y.  He  tells  me  that  M.  d'Alembert  must 
be  with  him  before  eight  o'clock,  and  that  he  must  bring  his 
Eulogy  on  the  Abb^  de  Saint-Pierre  ;  adding, "  This  is  impor- 
tant." I  am  terribly  afraid  they  will  trouble  the  peace  of 
my  friend.     Ah !  how  that  would  grieve  me ;  I  would  gladly 

u 


210  LETTERS  OF  [1775 

add  to  ray  sorrows  tliose  he  may  have  to  bear.  Hatred  and 
bigots  are  always  on  the  watch.  I  feel  au  extreme  impa- 
tience for  to-morrow,  and  I  know  that  I  shall  not  close  an 
eye ;  the  more  I  abandon  my  own  happiness,  the  dearer  to 
me  is  that  of  my  friends.  I  cannot  express  my  affection  for 
M.  de  Condorcet  and  M.  d'Alembert  except  by  saying  they 
are  identified  with  me ;  they  are  as  necessary  to  me  as  the 
air  I  breathe ;  they  never  trouble  my  soul,  but  they  fill  it. 
In  short,  I  would  it  were  to-morrow  morning. 

But  if  this  need,  this  desire,  had  another  principle,  if  it 
were  not  friendship  which  —  Ah  !  I  should  be  an  unworthy 
creature,  and  I  should  hate  the  very  sentiment  of  passion. 
No,  I  could  not  hate  it,  it  has  lifted  me  this  evening  out  of 
what  I  suffer ;  I  have  listened  once  more  to  the  "  Month  of 
September"  [poem  by  Eoucher].  How  fine  that  is!  how 
grand  it  is  '  how  sublime  !  But,  mon  ami,  you  were  lacking 
to  my  pleasure ;  your  presence  renders  it  more  keen,  stronger, 
more  profound.  Ah  !  at  all  times,  in  all  situations,  my  soul 
has  need  of  you. 

I  did  not  get  home  till  half-past  seven  o'clock  ;  I  found  my 
friends  awaiting  me,  among  them  M.  Eoucher,  who  did  not  go 
to  Versailles.  I  wish  to-morrow  morning  were  here.  I  shall 
be  at  home  to-morrow,  for  Mme.  de  Chatillon  keeps  her 
room,  and  she  wants  me  to  pass  the  evening  with  her. 
Ah !  mon  Dieu !  my  evenings  are  given  to  M.  de  Mora 
or  to  you ;  it  is  the  part  of  the  day  that  is  dearest  to  me. 
If  I  did  not  fear  some  mistake  I  would  send  this  letter 
by  M.  de  Yaines'  lacquey.     Good-night. 

Eleven  o'clock  at  night,  1775. 

Mon  ami,  you  do  not  feel  the  need  of  seeing  me ;  perhaps 
I  have  even  been  importimate  in  your  thoughts.  You  have 
tried  to  repress  a  memory  wliich  came  to  trouble  your  pleas- 


1775]  MLLE.   DE   LESPlNASSE.  211 

tire.  Ah  !  how  I  pity  you  for  not  being  one  thing  wholly, 
either  to  that  which  pleases  you,  or  to  that  which  loves  you ! 
This  division  takes  away  all  the  charm  and  delight  of  senti- 
ment, and  ought  to  distress  an  honourable  soul.  I  do  not 
blame  you,  I  do  not  complain,  but  I  grieve  at  my  own 
weakness.  No,  my  self-love  does  not  give  me  strength 
against  you :  /  love  you  \  all  personal  interest  is  hushed  by 
those  words.  But  it  is  you,  your  welfare  that  insphes  me 
with  courage  and  generosity.  Yes,  mon  ami,  I  can  yield 
you  to  what  you  love ;  but  by  this  sacrifice  I  ought  to  obtain 
from  you  a  pledge  that  you  will  no  longer  seek  to  feed  in  my 
soul  a  sentiment  which  must  make  its  despair. 

Mon  ami,  I  know  it,  you  are  no  longer  free  to  love 
me.  Give  peace  to  your  soul,  do  not  pass  your  life  in 
reproaching  yourself  for  what  you  have  done ;  cease  to 
make  what  you  love  uneasy,  and  offend  no  longer  her 
who  loves  you,  who  forestalls  your  tastes,  your  desires, 
your  will,  and  makes  the  sacrifice  of  you  to  yourself. 
How  could  I  suppose  that  it  would  not  cost  you  much  to 
deceive  me  ?  Ah  !  if  you  have  not  force  enough  to  make 
my  happiness,  at  least  you  are  honourable  enough  to  grieve 
at  having  made  my  unhappiness.  Mon  ami,  rely  on  a  heart 
that  is  all  yours,  that  beats  for  you  only.  Struggle  no 
longer;  abandon  yourself  to  your  penchant;  the  consol- 
ing thought  will  remain  to  me  that  I  have  done  some- 
thing for  your  happiness,  and  that  despite  the  unnatural 
position  in  which  you  place  me,  I  have  done  nothing  to 
trouble  it.  Ah  !  deliver  me,  both  from  the  harm  I  have 
done  you  and  that  which  you  do  to  me.  Mon  ami,  be 
sincere,  I  conjure  you.  Say  to  yourself  that  nothing  will 
be  to  me  impossible ;  listen  to  the  cry  of  your  soul,  and 
you  will  cease  to  rend  mine.  Yes,  I  can  do  without  be- 
ing loved,  but  it  is  awful,  it  is  awful  to  me  to  doubt  you, 


212  LETTERS  OF  [1775 

to  suspect  you.  Esteem  me  enough  not  to  deceive  me ; 
I  make  oath  by  all  that  is  dearest  to  me,  by  you,  never 
to  make  you  repent  for  having  told  me  the  truth.  I  shall 
love  you  for  the  trouble  and  pain  you  will  have  spared  me, 
and  never  shall  you  hear  a  reproach.  In  losing  you,  I  do 
not  wish  to  keep  the  right  of  complaining,  nor  even  that  of 
touching  your  feelings. 

Mon  ami,  I  know  you  have  been  charmed  with  the  Opera. 
Mme.  d'H^ricourt  and  the  Comte  de  Creutz  came  to  tell  me 
all  about  it ;  I  did  not  listen  to  them  because  it  is  from  you 
that  I  want  to  hear  the  tale.  Besides  which,  the  Abb^  de 
B  .  .  .  had  just  troubled  me  in  speaking  of  you ;  he  declared 
that  he  had  been  told  I  was  madly  attached  to  you ;  that 
was  his  expression,  and  he  added :  "  No,  I  am  not  malicious ; 
this  is  not  a  trap  nor  a  vengeance."  I  was  confounded ;  but, 
fortunately,  at  that  moment  the  Archbishop  of  Toulouse  w^as 
aiuiounced.  What  think  you  of  that  ?  I  do  not  know 
whether  I  seek  to  reassure  myself,  but  I  think  it  is  merely 
a  jest  of  the  Abbd  de  B  .  .  .  ,  to  which  I  myself  had  given 
rise,  as  I  will  tell  you  some  day. 

I  saw  M.  Turgot,  who  said  he  blamed  himself  for  not 
having  replied  to  you  ;  he  was  much  flattered  by  your  letter. 
He  had  received  a  charming  one  from  Voltaire,  which  said, 
"  You  will  be  overwhelmed  with  sincere  congratulations,  etc." 
I  have  asked  the  Duchesse  de  Luxembourg  on  what  day  Mme. 
de  Bouftlers  would  return  ;  she  said  on  Monday.  I  dare  not 
flatter  myself  that  I  can  dine  anywhere  with  you  to-morrow ; 
but  I  cannot  help  wishing  to  do  so,  though  the  wish  may  be 
against  your  pleasure.  If  you  have  been  to  see  the  Comte 
de  Broglie,  mon  ami,  it  is  too  bad  of  you  not  to  give  me  a 
moment.  You  are  the  cause  of  my  not  listening  with  atten- 
tion to  the  Archbishop  of  Aix ;  I  was  awaiting  you,  —  how, 
then,  could  I  attend  to  him  ? 


1775]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  213 

I  think  the  Abbe  de  B  .  .  .  was  right  in  what  he  said,  but 
wrong  in  saying  it  to  me.  I  have  seen  twenty  persons  to-day, 
and  not  one  of  them  was  able  to  distract  me  from  the  need  I 
have  of  seeing  you.  Wliat  have  you  done  ?  where  have  you 
supped  ?  have  you  remembered  that  I  love  you  ?  can  I  say  as 
in  the  opera,  "The  heart  is  for  Pyrrhus,  for  Orestes  the 
prayers "  ?  Adieu  ;  all  I  ask  is  truth ;  remember  that  you 
owe  it  to  me,  without  subterfuge,  without  modification,  — 
such,  in  short,  as  it  is  in  your  soul. 

Saturday,  eleven  o'clock,  1775. 

I  did  not  expect  this ;  in  the  depths  of  my  soul  I  had  the 
painful  impression  of  those  cruel  words,  "  We  cannot  love 
each  other ; "  and  I  responded  to  them,  with  all  the  strength 
that  remained  to  me,  "  I  can  no  longer  live."  Mo7i  ami,  all 
that  I  feel,  all  that  I  suffer  is  inexpressible  ;  it  seems  to  me 
impossible  not  to  succumb ;  I  feel  the  exhaustion  of  my  bod- 
ily machine,  and  it  seems  to  me  I  need  only  let  myself  go  to 
die.  Nevertheless,  I  am  better  to-night ;  I  have  been  three 
hours  in  my  bath  and  came  out  of  it  almost  extinct,  with  a 
steady  pain  in  the  chest  which  has  not  yet  left  me.  M. 
d'Anlezy  and  Baron  de  Kock  have  just  gone  away  to  let  me 
answer  my  letter,  they  know  not  to  whom.  Good-night ; 
your  care,  your  uneasiness  convince  me  that,  in  spite  of 
your  words,  we  can  love  each  other.  Till  to-morrow ; 
already  I  am  awaiting  you. 

Tuesday,  eleven  at  night,  1775. 

I  have  refused  to  spend  the  evening  with  two  persons 
who  love  each  other,  that  I  may  talk  with  him  I  love  and 
pass  the  time  with  more  peace  and  pleasure  than  I  could 
find  in  society.  Others  have  not  the  power  to  distract  my 
mind  completely;  and  it  does  me  harm  to  have  it  turned 
away  from  that  which  pleases  me  and  interests  me.     Mori 


214  LETTERS   OF  [1775 

ami,  solitude  has  great  charm  for  a  mind  preoccupied.  Ah ! 
how  intensely  we  live  when  we  are  dead  to  all  except  the 
one  object  which  is  the  universe  of  our  soul,  which  grasps 
our  faculties  so  vitally  that  we  cannot  live  in  other  moments 
than  the  one  we  are  in !  Ah !  how  can  you  ask  me  to  tell 
you  if  I  shall  love  you  "  three  months  hence  "  ?  How  could 
I,  with  my  thoughts,  divide  myself  from  my  feelings  ?  You 
wish  that  when  I  see  you,  when  your  presence  charms  my 
senses  and  my  soul,  I  should  render  you  an  account  of  the 
effect  I  shall  receive  from  your  marriage !  Mon  ami,  I  know 
nothing  about  it  —  nothing  at  all.  If  it  cures  me,  I  will 
tell  you  so,  and  you  will  be  just  enough  not  to  blame  me. 
If,  on  the  contrary,  it  brings  despair  into  my  heart,  I  shall 
not  complain,  and  I  shall  not  suffer  long.  You  will  have 
feeling  and  delicacy  enough  to  approve  a  course  which  will 
cost  you  mere  passing  regrets,  and  from  which  j^our  new 
situation  will  soon  distract  you ;  and  I  assure  you  that  that 
thought  is  a  consoling  one  for  me ;  I  feel  more  at  liberty. 

Do  not,  therefore,  ask  me  again  what  I  shall  do  when  you 
have  bound  your  life  to  that  of  another.  If  I  had  vanity 
and  self-love  only  I  might  be  better  enlightened  as  to  what 
I  should  then  experience.  The  calculations  of  self-love  are 
never  mistaken ;  they  can  foresee  clearly ;  but  passion  has 
no  future ;  thus,  in  saying  to  you  now,  "  I  love  you,"  I  say 
all  that  I  know,  all  that  I  feel.  I  attach  no  value  to  that 
constancy  commanded  by  reason  —  but  of tener  by  those  petty 
interests  of  society  and  vanity  which  I  despise  with  all  my 
soul.  Nor  do  I  respect  that  dull  courage  which  allows  us  to 
suffer  when  we  might  prevent  it,  and  spends  its  reason  and 
its  power  in  converting  an  ardent  sentiment  into  a  cold 
habit.  All  this  manoeuvring  with  one's  self,  all  this  be- 
haviour with  those  we  love  seem  to  me  an  exercise  of  false- 
ness  and   dissimulation,   the   resource   of    vanity   and   the 


1775]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  215 

requirement  of  weakness.  Mon  ami,  you  will  find  nothing 
of  all  that  in  me ;  and  this  is  not  the  result  of  reflection ;  it 
is  the  habit  of  my  life,  my  character,  my  manner  of  being 
and  feeling ;  in  a  word,  it  is  my  whole  existence  which  ren- 
ders society  and  constraint  impossible  to  me. 

I  feel  that  if  you  had  to  create  a  disposition  in  me,  it 
would  not  be  the  result  of  all  this  which  would  compose  it ; 
you  would  form  me  a  character  more  analogous  to  the 
course  you  are  going  to  take ;  it  is  not  inflexibility  and 
strength  that  are  wanted  in  victims,  but  weakness  and  sub- 
mission. Oh  !  mon  ami,  I  am  capable  of  all  things,  except 
bending  ;  I  should  have  the  strength  of  martyrs  to  satisfy 
,my  passion  or  that  of  him  who  loved  me ;  but  I  find  nothing 
in  my  soul  that  assures  me  of  the  power  to  ever  make  the 
sacrifice  of  my  feeling.  Life  is  nothing  in  comparison ;  and 
you  will  see  whether  this  is  the  talk  of  an  excited  head. 
Yes,  perhaps  these  are  the  thoughts  of  an  impassioned  soul, 
but  to  such  belong  strong  actions.  Is  it  to  reason,  which  is 
so  cautious,  so  weak  in  its  views  and  even  so  powerless  in 
means,  that  such  thoughts  can  belong  ?  Mon  ami,  I  am  not 
reasonable,  and  it  is  perhaps  because  I  am  impassioned  that 
all  my  life  I  have  consented  to  the  opinion  and  judgment  of 
indifferent  persons.  How  many  eulogies  I  have  usurped  on 
my  moderation,  my  nobility  of  soul,  my  disinterestedness,  on 
-the  so-called  sacrifices  that  I  made  to  a  dear  and  honoured 
memory  and  to  the  family  of  d'Albon !  That  is  how  the 
world  judges,  how  it  sees.  Ah !  good  God !  fools  that  you 
are,  I  do  not  merit  your  praises ;  my  soul  was  not  made  for 
the  petty  interests  that  occupy  yours :  given  wholly  up  to 
the  happiness  of  loving  and  being  loved,  I  needed  nothing, 
neither  strength  nor  honour,  to  enable  me  to  bear  poverty, 
and  to  disdain  the  deprivations  of  vanity.  I  have  enjoyed 
60  much,  I  have  so  felt  the  full  value  of  life  that  were  it  to 


216  LETTERS  OF  [1775 

begin  again  I  should  wish  it  might  be  under  the  same  con- 
ditions. To  love  and  to  suffer  —  heaven  and  hell  —  to  that 
I  would  vow  myself;  that  is  what  I  desire  to  feel;  that  is 
the  climate  I  wish  to  inhabit,  and  not  the  temperate  zone  in 
which  live  all  tlie  fools  and  all  the  automatons  by  whom  we 
are  surrounded. 

Mon  ami,  when  I  took  this  pen  it  was  with  the  intention 
of  continuing  to  paint  yoa,  and  behold !  with  detestable  self- 
ness,  I  have  changed  my  model,  I  have  painted  myself, 
giving  way,  like  a  lunatic,  to  all  that  stirs  me,  —  but  it  is 
through  you  that  I  do  this,  through  the  tenderest  and  most 
ardent  feeling ;  I  have  therefore  done  well  to  yield  to  it.  I 
do  not  know  whether  1  shall  send  you  this  ]ong  chatter  or 
give  it  to  you  —  yes,  1  will  give  it  to  you.  If  I  send  it  to 
you  I  am  afraid  you  will  tell  me  that  you  will  dine  with  M. 
de  Beauvau,  and  that  would  be  bad. 

Midnight,  1775. 

Oh,  what  sweetness,  what  pleasures  the  soul  intoxicated 
with  passion  may  enjoy !  Mon  ami,  I  feel  it,  my  life  de- 
pends on  my  soul's  madness ;  if  I  became  calm,  if  I  returned 
to  reason,  I  should  not  live  twenty-four  hoiu-s.  Do  you 
know  the  first  need  of  my  soul,  when  it  has  been  violently 
agitated  by  pain  or  pleasure  ?  It  is  to  write  to  M.  de  ]\Iora ; 
I  revive  him,  I  recall  him  to  life,  my  heart  rests  on  his,  my 
soul  pours  itself  into  his  soul ;  the  warmth,  the  rapidity 
of  my  blood  overcomes  death,  for  I  see  him,  he  lives,  he 
breathes  for  me,  he  hears  me,  my  brain  is  enraptured,  it 
wanders,  to  the  point  of  having  no  need  of  illusions ;  this  is 
truth,  —  yes,  you  yourself  are  not  more  tangible,  not  more 
present  than  M.  de  Mora  has  just  been  to  me  for  more 
than  an  hour.  0  divine  being !  he  has  forgiven  me,  he 
loves  me ! 

Mon  ami,  what  I  have  just  experienced  is  the  result  of  the 


1775]  MLLE.  DE  LESPINASSE.  217 

shock  my  soul  received  this  afternoon.  Mon  Dun!  one 
should  cherish,  adore  a  gift  that  seems  to  give  one  a  new 
existence.  Oh  !  no,  I  am  not  great  enough,  not  strong  enough 
to  boast  of  this  gift  of  Heaven ;  but  there  is  in  me  enough 
sensibility  and  passion  to  enjoy  it  with  transport.  Ah! 
what  happiness  to  love  !  Love  is  the  one  principle  of  all 
that  is  noble,  all  that  is  good  and  grand  on  earth.  M. 
Koucher  ^  has  loved ;  it  is  passion  that  renders  him  sublime. 
But  my  heart  melts  with  sadness  when  I  think  that  that 
rare  man,  that  wonder  of  nature,  knows  poverty  and  suffers 
from  it  for  himself  and  others.  Ah  !  such  excess  of  poverty 
blights  love ;  it  needs  a  miracle  to  preserve  the  force  and 
energ)'  that  he  puts  into  his  poems ;  his  soul  is  of  fire,  and 
in  no  direction  does  he  seem  to  be  depressed  by  misfortime. 
I  know  not  if  it  is  weakness,  but  I  have  just  melted  into 
tears  at  feeling  myself  powerless  to  succour  that  man.  Ah ! 
if  my  blood  could  be  changed  to  gold,  his  wife  and  he  would 
know  comfort  this  night.  Why  should  I  not  stir  the  soul  of 
Comte  de  C  .  .  .  ?  AVhat  an  employment  that  would  be  of 
his  wealth  !  Ah !  if  M.  de  Mora  were  living,  with  what 
pleasure,  what  eagerness  he  would  satisfy  my  heart.  Yes,  it 
is  with  tears  of  blood  that  one  must  mourn  such  a  friend ; 
in  adoring  him  we  pay  homage  to  virtue. 

But  adieu,  mon  ami.  You  cannot  be  on  the  tone  of  my 
soul;  you  judge,  and  I  feel.  You  have  just  been  amused 
and  enervated  by  pleasure ;  I  have  just  been  intoxicated  by 
passion ;  my  powers  are  exhausted,  and  I  do  not  know  where 
I  found  strength  to  scribble  at  such  length.     Adieu. 

If  you  have  not  changed  your  mind,  I  will  call  for  you  at 
M.  d'Argental's  at  five  o'clock    to-morrow ;   but,   above  all, 

^  Jean-Antoine  Roucher,  married  for  love,  was  guillotined  in  1794  ;  he 
wrote  some  touching  verses  to  his  wife  just  before  going  to  the  scaffold. 
—  Eb.  Ed. 


218  LETTERS   OF  [1775 

mon  ami,  no  forced  compliance,  no  sacrifices ;  I  do  not  merit 

them,  as  you  very  well  know. 

Ten  o'clock,  1775> 

You  have  fever !  it  grieves  me.  —  1  have  just  been  told  that 
some  one  has  seen  you  at  a  miniature-painter's  and  that  the 
likeness  is  striking.  That  young  girl  is  worthy  of  the  sacri- 
fice you  have  made  to  her  of  the  time  required  for  a  minia- 
ture ;  but  your  life  will  be  hers ;  it  is  generous  to  give  it  thus 
in  advance.  I  thought  her  charming,  and  well  worthy  of 
the  interest  she  inspires  in  you.^  The  maimer,  the  appear- 
ance, and  the  tone  of  her  mother  are  equally  pleasing  and 
interesting.  Yes,  you  will  be  happy  :  I  thank  you  for  the 
opportunity  which  enabled  me  to  meet  them.     Good-night. 

Eleven  o'clock,  1775.  . 
Mon  ami,  what  have  you  done  to  me  ?  I  feel  so  pro- 
foundly sad,  so  unhappy,  that  this  crisis  of  pain  and  discom- 
fort must  come  from  you.  The  fear  that  you  cause  me,  the 
distrust  you  inspire  in  me,  are  two  tortures  that  keep  my 
soul  forever  on  the  rack ;  and  that  sort  of  torture  should  suf- 
fice to  make  me  renounce  your  affection,  or,  at  least,  that 
which  resembles  it.  I  do  not  know  what  dreadful  pleasure 
you  can  take  in  putting  trouble  into  my  soul ;  never  do  you 
seek  to  reassure  me ;  and  even  in  speaking  the  truth  you  do 
it  in  the  tone  of  one  who  deceives.  Ah !  mon  Dieu  !  how 
my  soul  aches  !  How  passionately  I  desire  to  be  delivered, 
no  matter  by  what  means,  from  the  position  in  which  I  am ! 
I  expect,  I  desire,  your  marriage  ;  I  am  like  a  patient  doomed 
to  an  operation ;  he  sees  his  cure  and  forgets  the  violent 
means  which  will  procure  it.  Mon  ami,  deliver  me  from  the 
misfortune  of  ha\dng  loved  you.     It  so  often  seems  to  me 

1  Mile,  de  Courcelles.  Mile,  de  Lespinasse  thought  it  a  mariar/e  de 
convenance,  but  discovered  later  that  M.  de  Guibert  had  been  in  love  with 
her  for  the  past  year.  —  Tr. 


1775]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  219 

that  there  is  almost  nothing  to  do  to  accomplish  this  that  I 
feel  a  sort  of  shame  for  having  ever  staked  the  whole  of 
life  upon  you ;  but  oftener  still  I  feel  m}self  so  chaiaed,  so 
garotted  on  all  sides,  that  I  have  no  longer  any  liberty  of 
motion.  It  is  then  that  death  appears  to  me  the  only  re- 
source, the  only  succour,  that  I  have  against  you. 

I  meant  only  to  tell  you  not  to  come  and  see  me  to-day, 
which  I  think  was  your  intention.  I  am  going  to  "  Orpheus," 
and  I  spend  the  evening  with  Mme.  de  Boufflers ;  in  the 
interval  between  the  opera  and  supper  I  go  to  see  Mme.  de 
Chatillon,  who  is  still  ill.  You  would  not  dine  in  company 
with  me  to-morrow ;  you  think  that  two  dinners  in  one  week 
is  too  much ;  Wednesday  you  will  tell  me  the  same  thing. 
Very  well '  do  what  pleases  you,  and  I  shall  do  my  best  to  be 
pleased  also.     Adieu. 

[After  receiving  your  letter.'] 

With  what  poison  you  revive  my  life  !  Is  it  a  benefit 
to  feel  pleasine  and  happiness  for  one  instant  when  no  time 
is  left  to  me  to  enjoy  it  ?  Ah !  you  are  very  cruel ;  you 
hold  me  to  life  knowing  that  soon  I  ought  no  longer  to  live 
for  you.  But,  mon  ami,  I  must  not  reproach  you.  You 
overwhelm  me  with  praises  and  I  deserve  none ;  no  !  I  must 
not  be  praised;  I  should  be  pitied  for  being  inspired  by  a 
sentiment  which  could  give  expression  to  stones.  How 
speak  coldly  to  that  we  love  ?  How  not  deshe  his  happiness 
and  fame,  in  preference  to  all  that  is  only  self  ?  Mon  ami, 
you  hurt  me  when  you  praise  me ;  do  you  think  you  com- 
fort my  soul  when  you  flatter  my  vanity  ?  Mon  Dieu  !  do 
you  not  know  that  there  is  neither  amends  nor  compensation 
in  the  whole  universe  for  what  I  desire  and  fear  ?  Oh  !  yes, 
you  know  it ;  for  you  see  to  the  bottom  of  my  soul ;  you 
know  what  fills  it,  what  inspires  it,  and  what  renders  it  des- 


220  LETTERS   OF  [1775 

perate.     Good-bye,  mon  ami  ;  your  letter  is  very  amiable  and 
will  help  me  live  through  this  long  day. 

Thursday,  1775. 
Ah  !  mon  Dieu  !  your  note  comes  from  heights  !  Is  that 
the  tone  that  your  happiness  will  make  you  take  ?  In  that 
case  I  shall  not  venture  to  complain ;  I  merely  wish  you  to 
know  that  it  is  not  in  my  power  to  endure  protection  or  com- 
passion ;  my  soul  is  not  fashioned  for  such  baseness ;  your 
pity  would  put  a  climax  to  my  unhappiness ;  spare  me  the 
expression  of  it.  Convince  yourself  that  you  owe  me  nothing, 
and  that  I  exist  for  you  no  longer.  It  is  not  an  effort  that  I 
ask  of  you,  as  you  know ;  it  is  simply  to  retain  with  me  the 
habits  you  now  have  taken,  and  to  have  none  of  these  re- 
turns to  commiseration  which  blightr  and  abase  one  who  is 
the  object  of  it.  How  are  you  ?  Are  you  going  to  Versailles  ? 
Your  Eulogy  is  in  the  hands  of  a  learned  man. 

Eleven  o'clock  at  night,  1775. 

Yes,  my  friend,  I  have  pardoned  you,  but  as  it  is  not  from 
generosity,  I  am  punished.  Is  it  just  that  I  should  be  pun- 
ished by  you  ? 

Tell  me  news  of  yourself  ;  have  you  taken  the  milk  ?  have 
you  bathed  ?  in  short,  are  you  doing  what  you  said  you 
should  do  ?  Do  you  know  that  you  have  within  yourself  the 
means  of  curing  yourself,  and  infallibly  ?  This  truth  is  begin- 
ning to  be  proved  to  my  mind  in  a  maimer  that  sometimes 
frightens  me.  Yes,  death  was  nothing,  but  you  have  made 
it  terrifying  to  me.  I  turn  my  thoughts  from  a  memory  that 
freezes  my  blood  and  detaches  me  from  you. 

Mon  Dieu  !  I  did  not  see  you ;  I  was  expecting  you,  the 
feeling  was  so  sweet,  when  Prince  Pignatelli  arrived.  His 
presence  kills  me ;  the  sound  of  his  voice  makes  me  shudder 
from  head  to  foot,  it  imbues  me  alternately  with  sensibility 


1775]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  221 

and  horror;  in  short,  he  agitated  my  soul  to  the  point  of 
making  me  forget  I  could  have  seen  you.  He  did  not  leave 
me  till  ten  o'clock,  and  since  then  I  have  been  in  a  state  of 
depression  from  which  you  alone  could  draw  me. 

Mon  ami,  have  you  received  an  answer  to  the  charming 
letter  you  wrote  yesterday  morning  ?  No  matter  what  you 
say,  you  like  better  to  please  than  to  be  loved.  I  have  ex- 
perience of  this ;  you  were  so  charming  then !  it  seemed  to 
me  it  would  be  sweet  to  you  to  be  loved.  Ah !  what  mis- 
takes !  and  the  regi-ets  that  follow  them  will  sting  me  to  the 
last  breath  of  my  life. 

I  received  a  charming  present  yesterda}-,  and  the  manner 
in  which  it  was  given  is  so  piquant  and  original  that  I  want 
to  tell  you  about  it :  "I  send  you  these  C  .  .  .  of  E.  .  .  . 
which  please  you  so  much ;  keep  them  until  they  do  not 
please  you  at  all ;  I  shall  learn  in  that  way  how  much  time 
it  takes  for  that  which  has  pleased  you  to  displease  you."  If 
that  idea  seems  to  you  common,  then  I  do  not  know  what 
wit  and  originality  are.  I  feel  myself  too  dull  to  answer  it, 
and  yet  I  must  thank  him.  Answer  it  for  me ;  and  what 
you  make  me  say  will  give  me  precedence  forever  over  Mme. 
de  S^vigne ;  it  will  be  the  first  time  I  have  taken  pleasure  in 
usurping  good  opinions  and  decking  myself  with  peacock's 
feathers.  Mon  ami,  jesting  apart,  be  witty  for  me.  You 
understand  it  is  a  man  who  makes  me  this  present.  I  have 
never  written  to  him,  therefore  he  can  make  no  comparisons. 

Good-night.  You  dine  to-morrow  with  persons  whom  you 
know  little;  you  will  be  very  agreeable;  guess  why.  As  for 
me,  I  dine  with  the  Duchesse  de  Chatillon ;  I  shall  be  half 
dead,  but  that  is  ray  fault.  Mon  ami,  I  want  my  dictionary 
and  the  letter  of  Mme.  d'Anville,  and  that  of  Mme.  de 
Boufiiers,  and  all  mine  ;  and  next,  I  want  to  see  you.  If  you 
wish  to  avoid  that  pernicious  society,  come  between  one  and 


222  LETTERS    OF  [1775 

five.  I  saw  this  afternoon  at  least  twenty  persons.  Judg- 
ing them  severely,  1  think  they  were  about  on  a  par  with 
those  who  filled  your  day.  Mon  ami,  except  on  one  point, 
let  us  always  be  reasonable  and  moderate  if  that  is  possible. 
M.  d'Alembert  has  just  had  the  gi-eatest  success  at  the 
Academy.  He  read  his  "  Eulogy  of  Bossuet."  The  Due  de 
Duras  made  a  discourse  which  was  much  applauded  as  ac- 
curate, noble,  simple,  and  delicate.  I  had  a  detachment  here 
from  the  Academy.  I  will  send  to  you  to-morrow  at  eight 
o'clock.  Sleep  well,  rest,  calm  yourself,  and  forget,  if  possi- 
ble all  those  who  suffer. 

Midnight,  May,  1775. 

Let  me  know,  or,  if  you  have  the  strength,  write  me  how 
you  passed  the  night ;  I  hope  without  fever.  I  have  just 
seen,  in  my  books,  that  Eoman  camomile  does  not  poison ;  it 
is  soothing,  and  they  make  use  of  it  in  colics ;  tell  me  if  it 
relieved  you.  Marriage  will  do  marvels  for  you ;  the  solici- 
tude of  your  wife,  and  that  of  those  about  you,  will  force 
you  to  take  better  care  of  your  health.  You  enjoyed  to-day 
the  comforts  of  a  home ;  it  was  well  you  could  not  leave 
them  for  the  Opera  [refers  to  an  heroic  ballet  by  Marmon- 
tel  and  Gretry].  The  music  had  very  pale  colours ;  my 
friend,  Grdtry,  ought  to  keep  to  the  gentle,  pleasing,  feeling, 
lively  style ;  surely  that  is  enough.  When  a  man  is  well-made, 
though  short,  it  is  dangerous  and  certainly  ridiculous  to 
mount  on  stilts ;  he  falls  on  his  nose  and  spectators  laugh. 
You  will  remark  that  this  is  not  in  contradiction,  but.  much 
in  confirmation  of  my  liking  for  "  Z^mire  and  Azor,"  "L'Ami 
de  la  Maison,"  and  "  Fausse  Magie." 

I  received  to-day  two  letters  which  have  convulsed  me, 
although  they  filled  my  soul.  Imagine  their  dates  :  "  Madrid, 
May  3,  1774,  getting  into  my  carriage  to  go  to  you,"  and 
the  other  :  "  Bordeaux,  May  13,  1774,  on  arriving  half  dead ; " 


1775]  MLLE.   BE   LESPINASSE.  22o 

and  I  receive  them  one  year  after  their  dates !  It  seems 
amazing,  and  as  if  it  were  a  warning.  I  answer  "  Yes,"  — 
and  I  thank  Heaven  for  letting  me  live  to  receive  these 
proofs  of  that  which  was  the  dearest,  most  sacred  thing  to 
me  in  all  this  luii verse.. 

You  are  keeping  your  room ;  therefore  it  will  be  less  trouble 
to  you  to  search  and  collect  my  letters.  In  mercy,  do  not 
refuse  me  that  moment  of  attention.  Be  assured  I  shall  not 
abuse  your  kindness.  I  expect  to  go  out  to-morrow  at  mid- 
day and  return  at  four  o'clock.  I  do  not  allow  myself  to 
wish  to  see  you.  AMiat  I  wish,  in  preference  to  my  own 
pleasure,  is  your  happiness,  your  will,  and  even  your  fancy, 
so  docile  am  I. 
\  Eleven  at  night,   Maj-  15,  1775. 

Eh!  mon  Dieu  !  no,  I  did  not  go  to  the  Academy;  I 
wanted  to  see  you  during  the  session,  but  you  did  not  come  ! 
I  saw  our  friends  afterwards,  intoxicated  with  pleasure ;  but 
I  was  sad  and  uneasy ;  you  were  ill,  or  you  did  not  care  to 
see  me  ;  that  was  what  I  was  feeling,  so  that  I  scarcely 
heard  what  was  said  around  me.  M.  d'Alembert  will  re- 
coimt  to  you  his  success.  He  will  tell  you  the  keen  delight 
he  had  in  making  the  Archbishop  of  Toulouse  applaud  him 
with  transport;  the  archbishop  wept  with  joy  and  en- 
thusiasm. I  like  such  emotion ;  and  I  am  certain  this  has 
been  one  of  the  happiest  moments  of  M.  d'Alembert's  life. 
I  am  very  glad,  but  by  thought  only,  for  my  soul  suffers,  and 
joy  can  no  longer  enter  there.  Mon  ami,  you  have  put  the 
last  seal  of  sorrow  upon  it.  But  it  is  not  of  myself  that  I 
wish  to  speak.  Tell  me  news  of  your  night ;  was  it  good  ? 
I  hope  it  may  have  been  good.  At  least,  have  you  no  fever  ] 
And  would  you  like  me  to  see  you  between  one  and  five 
o'clock  ?     But  do  not  constrain  vourself  to  this. 


224  LETTERS  OF  [1775 

One  hour  after  midnight,   1775. 

No,  mon  ami,  I  cannot  go  to  sleep  without  making  you 
share  the  esteem,  respect,  and  enthusiasm  that  pervade  my 
mind.  Ah !  how  fine  it  is,  how  virtu(jus,  how  noble !  What 
enthusiasm  I  feel  for  Marcus  Aurelius,  what  esteem  for  his 
virtuous  panegyrist.  ^  The  king  absolutely  must  read  it ;  I 
have  already  taken  steps  for  that ;  I  hope  my  prayer  may  be 
granted,  and  it  is  not  for  M.  Thomas  that  I  made  it.  That 
excellent  man  needs  nothing  more  than  the  enjoyment  his 
virtue  brings  him.  You  can  believe  that  I  have  just  written 
him  two  words  on  his  Eulogy.  Mon  ami,  if  my  death  were 
fixed  for  to-morrow  I  should  still  feel  the  need  of  honouring, 
of  cherishing  talents  and  virtue.  Think  me  mad  if  you 
will;  this  is  the  form  of  madness  which  inspired  liim  whom 
I  adored  for  eight  years.  Ah !  I  feel  with  anguish  what 
Montaigne  says  :  "  It  seems  to  me,  when  I  enjoy  alone,  I  rob 
him  of  his  share." 

Midnight,   May  20,  1775. 

So  the  die  is  cast,  the  verdict  given '  God  grant  it  may 
be  as  surely  for  your  happiness  as  it  is  for  my  fate.  Mon 
ami,  I  cannot  sustain  my  thought.  You  crush  me ;  I  must 
flee  you  to  recover  the  calmness  you  have  taken  from  me. 
Adieu ;  may  you  always  be  occupied  enough  and  happy 
enough  to  lose  even  the  memory  of  my  misfortune  and  my 
tenderness.  Ah  !  do  nothing  more  for  me ;  your  civilities, 
your  kind  actions  only  irritate  my  sorrow ;  leave  me  to  love 
you  and  die.  ^ 

1  This  "  Eulogy  on  Marcus  Aurelius,"  by  Thomas,  read  before  the 
Academy  in  1770,  was  suppressed  and  forbidden  to  be  printed.  In  May, 
1775,  the  injunction  was  raised.  —  Fr.  Ed. 

2  These  letters  refer  to  M.  de  Guibert's  marriage.  Here  is  how  he 
noted  down  in  his  diary  his  own  feelings  on  this  occasion:  "June  1, 
1775.  My  marriage  day  ;  beginning  of  a  new  life  ;  involuntary  shudder 
during  the  ceremony  ;  it  was  my  liberty,  my  whole  life  that  I  was  pledg- 


1775]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  225 

Tuesday,  eleyen  at  night,   May  21,  1775. 

Ah  !  mon  Dietc  !  follow  your  vexation,  and  go  !  I  need 
repose,  you  trouble  me,  I  feel  remorse.  Ah. !  why  did  I  ever 
know  you  '  I  might  have  had  but  one  soitow,  or  rather  I 
should  have  none.  I  should  be  delivered  from  a  life  I 
detest,  and  to  which  I  am  held  by  a  sentiment  that  tortures 
my  soul.  Do  you  ask  what  have  I  done  to-day  ?  what  have 
I  thought  ?  what  have  I  felt  ?  Alas  1  I  did  not  see  you ;  I 
have  known  only  regret,  soitow,  the  despair  of  fearing  you 
and  of  desiring  you.  Adieu  ;  do  not  see  me  ;  my  soul  is  con- 
vulsed, and  you  can  never  calm  it.  You  know  neither  the 
tender  interest  that  consoles  and  sustains,  nor  the  kindness. 
and  truth  which  inspire  confidence  and  restore  peace  to  a 
deeply  wounded  and  attiicted  soul.  Ah  !  }ou  do  me  harm  ; 
what  need  I  have  never  to  see  you  more  !  If  you  do  right, 
you  will  start  to-morrow  after  dinner.     I  will  see  you  in  the 

morning,  and  that  is  enough. 

Saturday,  July  1,  1775. 

The  trouble  and  agitation  of  my  ideas  and  of  my  soul  de- 
prived me  long  of  the  use  of  my  faculties.  I  have  experi- 
enced what  Rousseau  speaks  of :  there  are  situations  which 
have  neither  words  nor  tears.  I  passed  eight  days  in  the 
convnilsions  of  despair ;  I  thought  to  die,  I  wished  to  die,  it 
seemed  to  me  more  easy  than  to  cease  to  love  you.  I  for- 
bade myself  complaints  and  reproaches ;  I  thought  there 
was   degradation   in   speaking   of   my  sorrow  to   him  who 

ing.  Never  did  so  many  sentiments  and  reflections  fatigue  my  soul.  Oh, 
what  an  abyss,  what  a  labyrinth  is  the  heart  of  man !  I  am  lost  in  all 
the  emotions  of  mine.  But  all  things  promise  me  haj)piness  ;  I  marry  a 
young,  pretty,  gentle,  sensitive  woman,  who  loves  me,  whom  I  feel  is  made 
to  be  loved,  whom  I  love  already."  —  "From  June  1  to  8.  Days  passed 
like  a  dream.  It  is  a  dream  to  me,  this  new  state  :  love,  friendship,  can- 
dour, amiability  of  my  young  wife.  Her  soul  develops  daily  to  me.  I 
love  her  ;  I  shall  love  her  ;  I  firmly  believe  I  shall  be  happy.  I  quit  her 
with  regret."     Voyages  en  France.     Paris,  1806.  —  Fr.  Ed. 

15 


226  LETTERS  OF  [1775 

caused  it  voluntarily.  Your  pity  would  have  humiliated  me, 
aud  your  indifference  would  have  revcdted  my  soul ;  in  a 
word,  to  preserve  some  decorum  it  was  proper  to  keep 
silence  and  await  you. 

Perhaps  I  was  mistaken,  but  I  thought  that,  under  these 
circumstances,  you  owed  me  certain  cares ;  and,  without 
supposing  you  to  have  much  tenderness  or  much  interest 
for  me,  1  thought  I  ought  to  count  on  what  decency  and 
my  misfortune  prescribed  to  you.  I  waited,  therefore.  At 
the  end  of  ten  days'  absence  I  received  from  the  chateau  de 
Courcelles  a  note  which  is  a  masterpiece  of  hardness  and 
coldness.  1  was  indignant,  I  felt  a  horror  for  you ;  but  soon 
I  felt  it  for  myself  when  I  considered  that  it  was  for  you 
(forgive  me),  yes,  for  you,  whom  I  saw  so  cruel,  that  I  had 
been  faithless  to  one  who  was  worthy  above  all  the  world  of 
being  loved.  I  abhorred  myself ;  life  seemed  to  me  no  longer 
endurable ;  I  was  torn  by  hatred  and  remorse ;  and  in  my 
despair  I  fixed  the  day  and  moment  when  I  would  deliver 
myself  forever  from  the  weight  that  was  crushing  me.  I 
gazed  at  death;  it  was  the  end  of  all  my  woes. 

That  terrible  moment  must  surely  still  all  passions,  for 
from  that  instant  I  gi-ew  cold  and  calm.  I  pledged  myself 
to  open  no  more  of  your  letters ;  to  occupy  my  mind  with 
what  I  once  had  loved  ;  to  employ  my  last  days  solely  in 
adoring  him  whom  I  had  lost ;  and  then  the  thought  of  you 
no  longer  pursued  me.  Nevertheless,  if  I  chanced  to  have 
a  moment's  sleep,  I  wakened  with  terror  at  the  sound  of 
your  horrible  words :  "  Live,  live ;  I  am  not  worth}*  of  the 
evil  I  do  you."  —  "  No  !  no  !  "  I  cried,  "  you  are  not  worthy 
to  be  loved."  But  I,  I  must  have  loved  distractedly  to 
become  so  faithless.  You  had  the  cinielty  to  bring  me  back 
to  life  and  bind  me  to  you  —  perhaps  to  render  death  more 
needful.     Ah  !  how  cruel  you  now  seem  to  me !     It  would 


1775]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  227 

have  cost  me  then  so  little  to  leave  jou  and  renounce 
my  life  ! 

"  But  why  die  ? "  I  said  in  my  heart,  at  times  turning  back 
upon  myself,  and  feeling  how  lov^d  and  surrounded  I  am 
by  those  who  seek  to  make  my  comfort  and  my  happiness. 
"  Why  make  a  man  whom  I  hate  believe  that  I  could  not 
live  without  lovmg  him  ?  To  die  would  not  even  avenge  me." 
I  felt  my  soul  fortifying  itself  as  I  went  farther  and  fartlier 
from  you. 

In  that  condition  of  mind  I  was  when  the  package  came 
addressed  to  M.  de  Vaines.  It  recalled  me  to  gentler  emo- 
tions ;  I  was  obliged  to  open  it  as  it  contained  your  "  Eulogy 
on  Catinat."  I  know  not  if  it  was  weakness  or  delicacy,  but 
I  told  myself  that,  although  I  owe  you  nothing,  I  could 
not  refuse  my  care  of  an  affair  for  which  you  had  relied 
upon  me  [the  acceptance  of  his  Eulogy  by  the  Academy]. 
I  thought  that  my  resentment  ought  not  to  make  me  fail 
in  an  action  imposed  upon  me  by  the  confidence  you  had 
placed  in  me.  It  was,  therefore,  on  moral  grounds  that  I 
opened  the  package.  I  saw  your  open  letter ;  I  read  it ;  it  was 
civil,  but  cold ;  had  it  shown  more  feeling  I  might  perhaps 
have  combated  my  resolution.  It  did  better,  it  confirmed 
me  in  it.  I  continued  my  efforts  for  your  Eulogy;  and  I 
enjoyed,  with  a  sort  of  pleasure,  the  interest  it  excited  in  me. 
It  was  not  you,  not  my  sentiment  that  I  was  gratifying ;  it 
was  my  pride.  "  I  have  strength  enough,"  I  said  to  myself, 
"  to  oblige,  to  do  a  service  to  him  I  hate,  who  has  done  me 
harm  ;  and  by  the  way  I  do  it  I  am  certain  that  he  cannot 
feel  obliged  to  me."  That  thought  sustained  my  courage ;  I 
felt  such  strength  against  you  that  I  re-read  your  letter,  and 
far  from  softening  my  soul  it  made  it  stronger  as  I  noted 
the  little  interest  and  regret  you  showed  for  me. 

I  judged  your  letter  without  passion ;  it  proved  to  me  that 


228  LETTERS   OF  [1775 

I  had  taken  the  ouly  reasonable  course.  I  continued,  there- 
fore, to  act  for  the  success  of  your  affair,  and  I  have  put  such 
activity  into  it  that  T  might  be  thought  inspired  by  the 
keenest  interest.  Your  note  from  Bordeaux  reached  me ;  ^  I 
thought  that  T  ought  not  to  fear  its  eflects ;  on  the  contrary, 
that  it  would  give  me  fresh  motives  to  keep  apart  from  you. 
I  opened  it  hastily ;  it  was  short,  and  though  devoid  of  feel- 
ing, it  expressed  a  regret  that  was  honourable.  I  was  not 
touched,  but  T  was  calmed  by  it.  "If  he  is  honourable,  so 
much  the  better,"  I  said  to  myself ;  "  I  shall  l)e  less  humil- 
iated. My  soul  does  not  need  to  hate  him  ;  that  feeling  only 
tortured  it.  Indifference  will  bring  me  peace,  and  in  that 
condition  I  may  be  able  to  enjoy  the  consolations  that  are 
offered  to  me.  I  must  yield  myself  up  to  the  cares  of  friend- 
ship ;  I  will  respond  to  those  I  have  lately  rebuffed ;  I  must 
please  them,  and  that  occupation  will  turn  aside  the  thoughts 
that  have  blasted  and  depressed  my  soul  so  long." 

AVith  these  reflections  1  jjrescribed  to  myself  a  course  of 
conduct  to  which  I  have  been  mamly  faithful  so  far^,  and  it 
answers  well.  I  lead  a  more  dissipated  life ;  I  give  myself 
up  to  whatever  presents  itself ;  I  am  always  surrounded  by 
persons  who  love  me,  who  cling  to  me,  not  because  I  am 
lovable,  but  because  I  am  unhappy.  They  do  me  the  honour 
to  think  that  I  am  crushed  by  the  loss  I  have  met  with ; 
they  seem  to  take  pleasure  in  the  effort  I  am  making  to  cure 
myself ;  they  are  grateful  for  my  courage ;  they  laud  me, 
they  take  pleasure  in  me;  they  lift  me,  so  to  speak,  from 
my  sorrow  and  never  leave  me  a  moment  to  myself.  Yes,  I 
see  it,  the  greatest  good,  the  ouly  good,  is  to  be  loved ;  it  is 
the  only  balm  for  a  torn  heart.  —  But  nothing,  I    feel  it, 

1  Eight  days  after  his  marriage  M.  de  Guibert  rejoined  his  regiment  at 
Libourne,  whence  he  made  various  journeys  about  France  and  Switzer- 
land. —  Fr.  Er>. 


1775]  MLLE.  DE  LESPINASSE.  229 

nothing  on  earth  can  extinguish  the  sentiment  which  has 
made  my  whole  existence  during  so  many  years. 

The  need  of  delivering  myself  from  the  torture  that  you 
have  caused  me  will  make  me  seek  resources  I  have  hitherto 
rejected.  I  hope,  I  feel,  that  an  enlightened  and  resolute 
will  has  more  power  than  I  thought.  A  score  of  times  1 
have  had  the  impulse  to  separate  from  you,  but  I  never  was 
sincere  with  myself.  I  desired  not  to  sutler  more,  but  I 
never  took  the  means  to  cure  myself ;  you  have  now  supplied 
me  with  a  very  powerful  one,  truly.  Your  marriage,  in 
making  me  know  your  soul,  has  repelled  and  closed  mine  to 
you  forever.  Oh !  no,  do  not  think  that  I  am  following 
your  advice  and  taking  my  pattern  from  the  novels  of  Mme. 
Riccoboni;  women  whom  levity  leads  astray  may  conduct 
themselves  by  the  maxims  and  principles  of  novels.  They 
are  full  of  illusions ;  they  think  themselves  gentle  and  gen- 
erous when  they  are  only  cold,  base,  and  contemptible ;  they 
do  not  love,  they  cannot  hate ;  they  know  nothing  but  gal- 
lantry ;  their  souls  do  not  attain  to  the  heights  of  love  and 
passion,  and  Mme.  Riccoboni  herself  cannot  rise  to  them 
even  in  imagination.  Mon  Dieu  !  how  wounded  I  was  by 
the  comparison  you  made  between  my  sorrows  and  the  situa- 
tions in  a  novel !  How  indifferent,  how  little  delicate  you 
seemed !  how  superior  to  you  I  felt  myself  in  being  capable 
of  a  passion  of  which  you  could  not  even  judge ! 

But  I  must  end  this  long  letter,  which  will  put  you  in 
a  position  to  better  comprehend  my  actual  state.  I  have 
rendered  an  account  of  all  I  have  felt ;  I  have  done  so  with 
the  same  truth  that  I  have  always  shown  to  you ;  and,  as  a 
part  of  that  truth  which  is  sacred  to  me,  I  shall  not  tell  you 
that  I  desire  your  friendship,  or  that  I  have  any  for  you; 
that  sentiment  can  have  no  sweetness  or  charm  unless  it  is 
founded  on  confidence.     Adieu  j   allow  me   the   feeling   of 


230  LETTERS   OF  [1775 

pride  and  of  revenge  which  makes  me  find  pleasure  in 
declaring  that  I  pardon  you,  and  iliaL  it  is  no  longer  in  your 
power  to  make  me  feel  fear  under  whatever  circumstances 
may  arise. 

I  enclose  herewith  three  letters  which  I  beg  you  to  read 
again ;  not  that  I  wish  to  inspire  you  with  regret  or  interest, 
but  I  desire  you  to  remember  once  all  the  evils  that  you  have 
caused  me.  I  exact  (and  your  conscience  will  tell  you  that 
1  have  the  right  to  do  so)  that  you  return  to  me  these  letters 
under  cover  to  M.  de  Vames,  with  a  double  address,  and  by 
the  next  courier  to  the  one  by  which  you  receive  them. 

Monday  evening,  July  3,  1775. 
On  the  arrival  of  the  courier  on  Saturday  I  had  just 
written  you  a  voluminous  letter,  and  I  did  not  withhold  it 
although  your  letter  made  me  change,  not  my  way  of  think- 
ing but  my  manner  of  feeling.  Nevertheless,  I  was  con- 
founded by  reading  that  you  had  only  "  the  appearance " 
of  being  guilty  towards  me,  and  that  my  "  unhappiness " 
claimed  your  "  indulgence  "  —  and  it  is  r/oii  who  utter  those 
words !  and  to  me  whom  your  injustice  has  killed  with 
grief !  Ah !  mon  Dieit,  I  where  find  the  strength  I  need  ? 
My  soul  can  no  longer  grasp  or  hold  to  anything.  I  do  not 
hate  you ;  I  pass  my  life  in  condemning  you,  in  suffering,  in 
cursing  the  life  to  which  you  have  fettered  me.  Ah !  why 
did  I  ever  know  you  ?  why  did  you  render  me  so  guilty  ? 
And  you  coldly  pronounce  me  "  unhappy  "  !  Does  nothing 
tell  you  that  it  is  you  who  have  made  my  sorrow  irrevocable  ? 
and  you  dare  to  call  the  silence  of  despair  a  "  detestable 
caprice  "  ?  Alas  !  I  have  loved  you  with  such  abandonment, 
my  soul  has  been  so  raised  above  all  interest  but  that 
of  my  passion,  that  it  is  inconceivable  you  should  call 
"  caprice "  the  impulse  that  makes  me  leave  you.     What ! 


1775]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  231 

you  have  not  even  the  language  of  the  feeling  that  inspires 
me  ?  At  the  very  moment  when  you  seek  to  bring  me  back 
to  you  you  wound  my  heart,  you  bruise  my  soul  by  your 
expressions.  Take  care  lest  you  lack  in  honom-able  delicacy 
by  complaining  of  me  when  I  am  crushed  by  you.  It  is  not, 
you  say,  vexation  or  gratitude  which  inspires  you,  it  is  the 
tenderest  of  feeling.  Ah !  if  that  were  true,  should  I  be  now 
at  the  summit  of  unhappiness  ? 

No,  you  are  mistaken ;  without  sharing  my  feeling,  with- 
out feeling  the  need  of  being  loved  as  I  love,  it  costs  you 
something  to  renounce  being  the  first,  the  sole  object  of  an 
active  and  impassioned  suul  which  has  put,  if  not  interest, 
at  least  emotion  into  your  life.  Yes  !  the  most  restless,  the 
most  wasted  life  feels  a  void  when  it  ceases  to  be  loved  by  a 
soul  strong  enough  to  suffer  and  tender  enough  to  forgive.  I 
was  not  so  generous,  or  so  cold,  as  to  forgive  you  for  the  harm 
that  rent  me ;  but  I  had  enough  sense  and  reason  to  seek 
calmness  in  silence.  My  soul  was  so  sick  that  I  hoped  its 
need  of  rest  would  lead  me  gently  to  indifference.  I  thought 
it  not  impossible  that  by  ceasing  to  see  you  and  hear  you 
speak  you  would  lose  the  power  you  have  to  lead  my  reason 
astray  and  convulse  my  soul.  Ah '  good  God !  why  do  you 
want  that  ascendency  ?  what  will  you  do  with  it  ?  make 
it  the  misery  of  my  life  and  the  trouble  of  yours  ?  It  needs 
an  excess  of  self-love  to  wish  to  maintain  a  sentiment  one 
cannot  share.  You  know  well  that  my  soul  is  without 
moderation  ;  therefore  it  is  condemning  me  to  the  tortures 
of  the  damned  to  wish  me  to  occupy  my  thoughts  with  you. 
You  ask  the  impossible  —  that  I  should  love  and  that  my 
"  reason  should  regulate  my  emotions,"  Is  that  in  na- 
ture ?  None  but  sentiments  made  with  our  heads  can  be 
perfect ;  and  you  know  whether  I  can  feign,  or  usurp,  or  owe 
the  happiness  of  my  life  to  a  conduct  not  dictated  by  the 


232  LETTERS   OF  [1775 

tenderness  of  my  feelings  or  by  the  vicjlence  of  my  passion. 
You  know,  you  see,  thai  I  have  not  even  the  use  of  my 
mind  with  the  one  I  h)ve. 

Jiut  all  this  is  talking  too  much  of  myself.  It  is  of  you 
that  I  wish  to  know  all  of  which  1  have  been  so  long  in 
ignorance  ;  you  owe  nie  an  account  of  your  thoughts  and 
actions  and  feelings.  Yes,  I  have  a  claim  to  that.  Why 
did  you  pause  in  writing  to  me  ?  You  say  that  your 
"  lieart  and  mind  are  full  "  !  to  whom  are  you  confiding 
yourself  ?  Is  there  any  one  in  the  world  who  knows  you 
better  than  I  ? 

In  regard  to  what  you  told  me  about  the  "  Connetable," 
1  sent  at  once  to  Mar^chal  de  Duras,  who  repeats  that 
it  will  be  played,  and  that  you  shall  have  a  furlough  at 
the  end  of  the  month,  after  which  you  are  to  go  in  Sep- 
tember to  Metz  to  finish  your  term  of  service.  He  wrote 
you  this  by  the  last  courier,  and  I  repeat  it  only  for  my 
own  satisfaction.  So,  you  have  "presumed  too  much  upon 
my  zeal "  !  How  ungrateful  you  are  1  if  mij  honour  and  my 
life  depended  on  it  I  should  not  take  so  much  trouble. 
There  are  fifteen  Eulogies  of  Catinat  sent  in  for  com- 
petition ;  but  only  one  of  them  makes  me  uneasy.  I  am 
to  read  that  one  to-morrow,  and  I  promise  to  send  you 
my  opinion  of  it  scaled ;  we  shall  see  hereafter  if  it  agrees 
or  not  with  that  of  the  Academy.  To  judge  soundly,  I  shall 
eliminate  love  and  hate,  and  then  you  will  see  whether  I 
have  a  mind  or  no  mind. 

Have  you  resumed  the  "  Gracchi "  ?  and,  though  all  ambi- 
tion, you  say,  is  extinct  in  you,  do  you  not  hope  that  that 
work  will  add  much  to  your  reputation  ?  M.  de  Yaines 
will  have  sent  you  the  originals  of  the  work  you  did  for 
M.  Turgot.  Do  not  think  that  I  have  forgotten  the  mem- 
orial of  M.  Du  .  ,  .  :  I  sent  it  immediately :  and  I  wrote 


1775]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  233 

about  it  with  more  interest  than  I  ever  put  into  my  own 
affairs  and  fortunes.  I  requested  them  not  to  reply  to 
me  at  once ;  because  it  is  only  refusals  that  are  prompt. 
So,  Monsieur,  I  think  that  I  shall  be  one  of  your  friends ; 
and  that  thought  does  not  allow  me  to  omit  anything 
that  may  bring  success. 

If  you  were  not  the  most  agreeable  man  in  the  world  how 
ridiculous  you  would  be !  Your  letter  is  a  mixture  of  confi- 
dence in  my  feelings  and  distrust  that  I  "  have  ever  loved 
you,"  which  is  too  amusing.  The  tone  is  so  polite,  and  then 
it  is  so  confident !  I  do  not  know  whether  you  love  me,  but 
you  are  almost  as  inconsistent  as  myself ;  am  I  alluring  you 
on  ?  If  you  only  knew  all  that  my  silence  has  made  you 
lose  !  I  do  not  mean  by  that  proofs  of  my  tenderness ;  but 
your  curiosity  would  have  been  so  entertained,  so  interested ! 
I  have  seen  much  and  many  things  since  your  departure !  I 
said  to  myself :  "  How  full  of  life  and  interest  all  this  would 
be  to  me  if  I  could  communicate  it  to  him  ;  but  now  that  I 
must  speak  to  him  no  longer,  it  is  not  worth  while  to  pay 
attention  to  it."  In  fact,  I  withdrew  into  my  own  soul,  where 
I  found  bad  company,  —  remorse,  regrets,  hatred,  pride,  and 
all  that  can  give  one  a  horror  of  life. 

Oh  1  a  word  escaped  me  in  writing  to  tell  you  that  your 
Eulog}'  was  admitted  to  competition, —  a  word  for  which 
I  have  blamed  myself  very  much.  How  can  we  call 
"  mon  ami "  that  whicli  we  hate  the  most  on  earth  ? 
What  reminiscence  could  have  led  me  to  use  that  word  ? 
it  is  inconceivable.  Can  it  be  that  this  hatred  is  the  first 
link  in  the  chain  that  does  not  leave  an  instant's  freedom 
to  those  who  have  been  subjugated  against  their  will  ? 
Ah  !  you  have  not  enough  intelligence  to  conceive  all  that 
one  suffers  in  seriously  loving  a  man  who  deserves  only 
the  love  of   women  whose   vanity   he  flatters  ,and  whose 


234  LETTERS    OF  [1775 

soul  he  never  lilLs.  That  i.i  how  ihey  l<jve,  thai  m  what 
they  say,  those  agreeable  people  ;  and  1  do  nuL  know  how 
it  is  that  with  so  much  that  is  agreeable  on  both  sides 
cue  should,  nevertheless,  be  wearied  to  death  in  the  midst 
of  them.  Mon  ami,  yes,  rnon  ami,  dearest  to  my  heart,  let 
us  not  (juarrel ;  let  us  forgive  each  other;  we  have  both 
good  reason  to  be  indulgent ;  but  remember  that  I  am  very 
ill,  and  \'ery  unhapp}- ;  if,  indeed,  you  wish  me  to  live,  help 
me,  sustain  me,  make  me  forget  the  harm  you  have  done  me. 
Answer  me.     Adieu,  adieu.     Are  you  not  weary  of  this  ? 

Tuesday,  July  4,  1775. 

I  am  very  sorry  ;  but,  mon  ami,  why  do  you  ask  the 
impossible  ?  Give  me  op]X)rtunity  to  be  useful  to  you  in 
whatever  you  think  right,  and  I  will  answer  that  the 
thmg  shall  be  done,  and  without  my  mingling  in  it ;  you 
have  only  to  speak.  .  . . 

I  have  that  Eulogy  on  Catinat  and  I  am  going  to  read  it. 
Mon  Dieu  !  how  passion  relaxes  morality  '  Here  am  I,  in 
gratitude  for  the  mark  of  confidence  shown  me  by  the 
author  [probably  La  Harpe,  whose  Eulogy  was  in  the 
competition],  here  am  I  desiring  that  his  work  may  be  good, 
but  onhj  to  the  degree  that  allows  of  no  doubt  between  his 
and  yours.  Mon  ami,  I  will  tell  you  about  it  truly,  but 
I  will  not  answer  that  what  I  say  is  the  truth ;  you  know- 
well  that  I  have  no  taste  and  very  little  common-sense; 
therefore  you  must  judge  of  my  judgment  as  it  deserves. 
Good-bye ;  if  I  have  no  letter  to-morrow,  justice  is  not  to 
be  expected  of  you. 

July  6,  1775. 
I  had  no  news  of   you  yesterday,  mon  ami.    You  have 
wearied  of  speaking,  and  I  have  too  soon  wearied  of  silence ; 
with  a  littlQ  more  courage,  so  much  pain  and  so  many  efforts 


1775]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  235 

would  not  have  been  thrown  away.  Tell  me,  if  jou  can,  how 
this  torture  is  to  end.  Will  it  be  hatred,  indifference,  or 
death  that  shall  deliver  me?  Mon  ami;  I  do  not  wish 
to  be  generous  by  halves  ;  I  believe  that  I  have  forgiven 
you ;  therefore  I  am  going  to  talk  with  you  as  if  you 
satisfied  me. 

I  will  tell  you  first  something  that  will  shortly  be  made 
public.  M.  de  Malesherbes  is  to  have  all  the  offices  of  the 
Due  de  La  Vrilliferes ;  the  latter  sends  in  his  resignation  in 
a  few  days ;  he  has  still  to  attend  an  iassembly  of  the  clergy, 
which  ought  to  be  worth  twenty  thousand  francs  to  him. 
M.  de  Malesherbes  resigns  his  position  in  the  Cour  des 
Aides,  and  M.  Barentin  takes  his  place.  If  you  only  knew 
how  much  honour  and  simplicity  M.  de  Malesherbes  has 
put  into  accepting  this  place  you  would  double  }our  esteem, 
liking,  and  veneration  for  that  excellent  man.  Oh !  you 
may  be  sure  that  the  right  will  be  done,  and  done  well, 
because  ideas  will  now  be  guided  by  virtue  and  love  of  the 
public  welfare.  Never,  no  never  were  two  more  virtuous, 
enlightened,  disinterested,  energetic  men  united  and  in- 
spired more  powerfully  by  a  gieat  and  lofty  purpose.  You 
will  see ;  their  ministry  will  leave  a  deep  trace  in  the  minds 
of  men.  All  that  I  am  now  telling  you  is  still  a  secret. 
This  choice  will  be  joyfully  received  by  the  public;  some 
men  will  be  furious,  but  they  will  hold  their  tongues.  The 
intriguers  will  have  but  little  chance,  and  that  is  very  touch- 
ing. Oh  !  what  had  times  for  courtiers  and  knaves !  Am  I 
not  over  scrupulous  in  making  that  distinction  ?  —  that  is 
called  splitting  hairs. 

Now  listen  to  me  and  tremble,  for  I  am  about  to  judge 
the  two  Eulogies  of  Catinat,  the  only  two,  I  imagine,  w^hich 
will  occupy  the  attention  of  the  Academy.  The  authors  of 
these  two  Eulogies  are  M.  de  Guibert  and  M.  de  La  Harpe. 


236  LETTERS  OF  [1775 

M.  de  Guibert  is  the  author  of  an  excellent  work  on  tactics, 
and  one  tragedy  :  those  tw(j  works  iuive  made  him  known 
as  a  man  of  talents  and  intellect,  and  they  show  on  all 
sides  an  elevated  soul,  full  of  energy.  It  is  from  this  knowl- 
edge and  the  prepossession  it  inspires  for  M.  de  Guibert  that 
I  have  read  and  judged  his  Eulogy  of  Catinat.  You  know 
M.  de  La  Harpe  better  than  1  do ;  you  know  him  to  be  an 
excellent  literary  writer,  with  much  intellect,  and,  especially 
the  purest  and  most  enlightened  taste.  This  is  the  justice 
I  did  him  before  I  read  his  Eulogy  of  Catinat.  Now  listen 
to  what  blind  presumption,  silly  and  stupid,  dares  to  say, 
and  see  if  you  will  be  angry,  or  whether  you  will  simply 
choose  to  disdain  i\ns  judf/ment :  — 

M.  de  La  Harpe's  Eulogy  is  written  with  his  usual  facility, 
but  with  a  correctness  which  he  spared  himself  imtil  he 
found  tliat  he  had  M.  de  Guibert  for  rival.  His  style  is 
easy  and  elevated ;  it  is  so  rare  to  unite  those  two  merits,  at 
least  to  such  a  point,  that  it  seems  to  me  we  may  say  that 
he.  writes  in  prose  as  Kacine  wrote  in  verse.  This  work  is 
that  of  a  man  of  letters  whose  mind  is  accurate  and  wise, 
and  whose  soul  is  gentle,  honest,  and  lofty.  There  are  many 
happy  expressions,  touching  remarks,  refined  ideas  expressed 
both  clearly  and  noljly ;  but  it  is  the  work  of  an  excellent 
writer,  a  man  of  great  intelligence  only.  That  of  M.  de 
Guibert  seems  to  me  the  work  of  a  superior  man,  who  has 
more  than  talent;  he  has  genius.  Neither  of  the  two  is  a 
philosopher:  one,  because  he  does  not  think  coolly  enough; 
the  other,  because  he  does  not  think  deeply  enough;  but 
the  soul  of  M.  de  Guibert  judges  men  and  events  with 
such  loftiness  and  energy  that  we  prefer  being  carried  away 
by  him  to  being  enlightened  by  a  wise  man.  The  military 
part  is  so  well  treated  by  M.  de  Guibert  that  the  most  igno- 
rant fancy  themselves,  as  they  read  it,  competent  to  appre- 


1775]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  237 

ciate  the  merits  of  Catinat.  That  part  of  M.  de  La  Harpe's 
work  is  obscure,  laboured,  and  very  wearisome.  In  reading 
M.  de  La  Harpe  we  are  agreeably  occupied,  and  sometimes 
moved ;  we  esteem  the  talent  of  the  author.  In  reading  M. 
de  Guibert  I  feel  my  soul  enlarge,  strengthen  itself,  take  on 
new  energy,  new  activity ;  but  sometimes  he  is  unequal ;  his 
style  is  not  always  sufficiently  clear  and  concise ;  at  times  it 
lacks  harmony,  and  we  find  certain  rash  expressions.  If  the 
prize  is  given  to  the  art  of  writing,  to  eloquence  of  style,  to 
the  best-constructed  work,  it  should  crown,  I  think,  M.  de  La 
Harpe.  But  if  it  is  given  to  eloquence  of  soul,  to  force  and 
elevation  of  genius,  to  tlie  work  which  will  produce  the 
greatest  effect,  then  "M.  de  Guibert  must  be  crowned.  If  I 
knew  neither  of  the  authors,  I  should  spend  my  life  in  desir- 
ing to  be,  or  regretting  that  I  was  not,  the  friend  of  M.  de 
Guibert,  and  I  should  simply  inform  myself  whether  M.  de 
La  Harpe  lived  in  Paris. 

Mon  ami,  I  am  dying  of  impatience  to  have  you  within 
reach  of  judging  my  judgment.  I  ask  your  word  of  honour 
that  you  will  show  it  to  no  one,  not  even  to  the  one  who  is 
dearest  to  you.  I  do  not  want  to  have  the  annoyances  or 
the  "  fame  "  which  the  Eulogies  of  La  Fontaine  caused  me. 
Mon  ami,  I  have  neither  vanity  nor  pretension  with  you  ;  it 
suits  me  to  be  stupid,  and  I  let  myself  go ;  and  with  others 
I  have  ceased  to  make  efforts ;  I  have  no  longer  the  strength, 
I  do  not  talk  with  them.  I  content  myself  by  saying, "That 
is  good,  that  is  poor,  that  is  bad,"  and  I  take  good  care  to  give 
no  reasons  ;  certainly  to  do  so  would  tire  me  as  much  as 
it  would  weary  them.  And  what  matters  having  intellect 
with  those  who  cannot  go  to  my  soul  ?  My  soul  is  still 
stung  by  misfortune,  but  it  has  no  warmth  ;  I  have  lost  that 
which  warmed  me,  enlightened  me,  uplifted  me ;  only  memo- 
ries remain  that  are  swathed  in  crape.     Oh,  mon  ami,  M.  de 


238  LETTERS   OF  [1775 

Mora  is  no  more,  and  you  prevented  nie  from  following  him ! 
by  what  fatality  did  I  inspire  in  you  an  interest  that  has 
become  to  me  so  disastrous? 

Friday,  July  7. 

I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  M.  de  Sartine  enters  the  Council ; 
this  is  done  to  console  him.  1  told  you  some  days  ago  that 
I  was  surrounded  by  friends,  but  for  the  last  two  days  deser- 
tion is  complete :  inspections,  regiments,  estates,  and  baths 
have  carried  them  all  away.  The  Neapolitan  ambassador 
[Caraccioli]  remains  to  me,  and  I  see  him  daily  ;  ])ut  he  is 
too  gay  for  me ;  he  thwarts  my  inclinations.  M.  de  Con- 
dorcet  has  returned.  After  long  conferences  with  his  dear 
uncle  it  is  agreed  that  M.  de  Condorcet  shall  many  —  when 
he  wishes  it.  That  sort  of  tyranny  is  bearable.  He  agreed, 
also,  to  be  presented  to  the  king,  and  to  put  his  lacquey 
into  mourning  because  the  head  of  the  elder  branch  of 
his  family  has  died  ;  and  after  these  conditions  and  prom- 
ises he  took  leave  of  his  uncle,  who  consoles  himself  for 
having  a  nephew  in  the  Academy  because  he  finds  he  is 
also  the  intimate  friend  of  a  minister.  Mon  Dieu !  what 
nonsense  !  it  makes  one  groan  when  it  does  not  make  one 
laugh. 

Mon  ami,  I  will  tell  you  some  day  about  an  anger  into 
which  I  let  myself  fall.  I  said  hard  things,  insulting  things  ; 
I  made  myself  enemies  —  but  no  matter  !  I  satisfied  myself. 
It  seemed  to  me  it  was  the  height  of  injustice  and  insolence 
to  venture  to  condemn  you.  I  want  the  exclusive  privilege 
of  thinking  ill  of  you.  I  want  others  to  judge  you  as  I  feel 
you  —  noble,  grand,  elevated  —  and  that  no  one  shall  call  you 
"  an  agi'eeable  man."  Ah  !  what  silly  praise  that  is  !  how 
destructive  of  true  merit !  "  He  is  agreeable."  That  means, 
when  persons  in  society  say  it,  "  He  is  frivolous,  light-minded, 
and  without  character."    Those  are  the  "  agreeable  people  "  of 


1775]  MLLE.   DE  LESPINASSE.  239 

this  nation  !  But  we  are  getting  better.  I  am  convinced  of 
that.     Adieu,  mon  ami. 

You  will  laugh  at  me  for  having  kept  from  you  a  secret 
about  which  everybody  will  be  writing  to  you.  But  if  you 
have  not  become  too  provincial,  you  must  know  that  three 
days  may  be  of  great  importance  in  a  secret  of  this  nature. 
Besides,  I  promised ;  and  morality  ought  not  to  reason. 

I  have  a  great  curiosity ;  I  should  like  to  see  a  letter  from 
.  .  .  But  new  duties  impose,  no  doubt,  a  withdrawal  of 
confidences ;  well,  so  be  it !  I  hope  I  shall  have  letters  f-rom 
you  to-morrow.  The  tone  will  be  very  curt,  very  cold ;  that 
will  displease  me,  and  perhaps  to  such  a  degree  that  I  shall 
regret  my  return  to  you.  I  ought  to  have  written  to  you 
"  You  are  not  worthy  of  the  harm  you  have  done  me ; "  those 
words  uncover  the  depths  of  my  heart,  and  cast  a  light 
on  ten  years  backward  ;  that  was  what  Clarissa  said,  in 
dying,  to  Belfort,  the  friend  of  Lovelace,  and  that  thought 
made  her  find  death  consoling  and  necessary.  But  adieu. 
Eichardson  knew  mankind,  love,  and  the  passions.  Mme. 
Riccoboni  knows  only  self-love,  pride,  sometimes  sensibility, 
and  that  is  all. 

Monday,  July  10,  1775. 

Ah !  how  unfortunate  I  am  !  how  ill-timed,  how  mistaken  ! 
Good  God,  what  an  error  I  have  fallen  into !  You  write  me, 
with  more  scruple  than  feeling,  that  it  would  have  sufficed 
you  to  receive  "  a  sheet  of  blank  paper ; "  and,  alas  !  it  was 
my  misfortune,  when  you  announced  to  me  your  will,  to  be 
led  into  writing  you  all  I  thought,  all  I  felt.  I  suffered, 
■  my  soul  was  wearied  out ;  it  turned  to  him  who  had  wounded 
it.  Oh  !  mon  ami,  when  you  receive  that  letter  you  will  not 
understand  it;  you  will  answer  me  ill,  and  1  shall  hate  you 
with  all  the  more  force  because  I  have  exposed  to  you  my 
weakness.     Cease  to  torment  me ;  you  do  too  much  and  too 


240  .   LETTERS   or  [1775 

little;  let  tlic  feelings  you  did  not  want  and  cannot  share 
die  out.  My  God  !  I  was  cured  if  it  were  not  for  that  cursed 
"  Eulogy  of  Catinat."  I  should  have  stayed  wliere  that  infa- 
mous note  from  the  Chateau  de  Courcelles  (the  recollection 
of  which  makes  me  quiver  with  anger)  placed  me.  I  should 
never  have  read  another  word  from  you,  and  in  that  deep 
silence  I  could  have  gained  the  strength  to  cure  myself  or 
die.  Mon  ami,  you  are  very  guilty ;  for  you  are  making  in 
cold  blood  the  despair  of  my  life.  After  telling  me  that  you 
know  I  suffer,  you  add  that  you  "  have  need  to  live  in  the 
country,  and  that  inclination  will  last  long."  You  desire 
to  go  and  live  in  the  country ;  you  have  no  desire  to  see  me. 
If  that  is  so,  why  tell  it  to  me.  You  should  be  silent  on 
that  which  is  likely  to  hurt  my  soul ;  yes,  you  should  be,  for 
do  not  think  there  is  but  one  sort  of  duty.  It  may  be  so  for 
those  coarse,  vain  soids  who  attach  the  idea  of  happiness 
only  to  money  and  the  approbation  of  the  fools  about  them ; 
but  with  you,  it  is  to  your  conscience  that  I  appeal,  and  it  is 
mine  that  will  judge  you  when  my  passion  is  silent.  Ah ! 
why  did  my  heart  abandon  itself  to  you ;  why  do  I  love  you 
when  I  have  such  strong  reasons  not  to  love  you  —  and  not, 
like  the  majority  of  women,  from  silly  vanity  or  the  dull 
want  of  occupation  ?  As  to  a  void  or  want  of  occupation,  I 
know  it  not ;  my  soul  could  be  occupied  a  hundred  years 
with  what  I  have  loved  and  what  I  have  lost,  and  my  life 
could  be  full  of  a  thousand  interests,  if  I  chose.  But  I 
repulse,  I  push  away  incessantly  all  that  attempts  to' reach' ^ 
my  soul. 

Thus,  you  see,  it  is  by  some  special  fatality  that  I  am  con- 
demned to  the  torture  that  is  killing  me,  and  you,  you  make 
yourself  a  cold  spectator  of  it!  You  have  grown  so  used  to 
the  spectacle  that  "a!  sheet  of  blank  paper"  would  have 
replied  to  all  you  thought  and  felt  for  me,  and  alas !  I  had 


1775]  -  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  241 

written  you  volumes  !  Think  what  the  folly  and  awkward- 
ness of  my  conduct  has  been  !     1  am  confoimded  by  it.  .  .  . 

1  have  never  mentioned  to  you  that  ring  which  you  gave  me 
at  parting.  I  put  it  on  my  finger  and  two  hours  later  it  was 
broken,  —  the  symbol  and  emblem  of  what  was  to  follow ; 
This  is  not  a  jest ;  it  was  the  saddest  of  omens  to  me.  Give 
me  another  ring,  strong  and  durable  as  my  own  sentiment ; 
that  which  you  gave  me  resembled  yours,  it  held  by  a  hair. 

You  say  you  "  no  longer  love  anything  but  study."  And 
yet  you  disdain  fame.  In  truth  you  are  a  great  philosopher 
when  you  are  sad ;  but  this  winter  you  will  be  so  happy,  so 
rich,  so  gay,  so  dissipated,  that  there  will  be  no  talk  then  of 
your  profound  philosophy.  Ah  !  no,  your  life  is  not  so  ad- 
vanced ;  your  head  is  still  too  young ;  it  needs  to  be  purged 
of  many  things  that  lead  your  soul  astray.  Mon  ami,  I  am 
very  impertinent,  am  I  not  ?  I  criticise  you  ceaselessly,  but 
I  love  you  better  than  those  who  praise  you.  M.  d'Alembert 
loves  you  as  if  I  consented  to  it.  Adieu ;  write  me  and 
often. 

Saturday  evening,  July  15,  1775. 

Mon  ami,  1  live,  I  shall  live,  I  shall  see  you  again!  and 
whatever  fate  is  in  store  for  me  I  shall  still  have  a  moment's 
pleasure  before  I  die.  I  did  not  say  so  to  myself  this  morn- 
ing ;  I  expected  my  doom ;  I  believed  it  fatal,  and  I  was 
ready  to  meet  it ;  I  would  not  complain,  I  could  not  suffer 
longer,  and  I  felt  that  this  day  would  be  the  last  of  my  life 
if  you  did  not  come  to  my  succour.  You  did  come,  mon  ami, 
your  heart  heard  me,  you  answered  me,  and  life  became 
bearable. 

I  had  a  paroxysm  of  despair  this  morning.  M.  d'Alembert 
was  frightened,  and  I  did  not  have  presence  of  mind  enough 
to  calm  him.  His  interest  in  me  wrung  my  heart,  it  relaxed 
my  soul,  it  made  me  burst  into  tears ;  I  could  not  speak,  but 

16 


242  LETTERS   OF  [1775 

he  says  that  in  my  wildness  I  repeated  twice,  "  I  am  dying 
go  away."     He  wept  and  he  wished  to  fetch  my  friends ;  he 
said :  "  How  grieved  I  am  that  M.  de  Guibert  is  not  here ; 
he  alone  can  soothe  your  sorrow ;  since  his  departure  you 
have  given  yourself  up  to  it." 

Oh !  mon  ami,  your  name  brought  me  to  my  senses ;  I  felt 
that  I  must  calm  myself  and  restore  to  life  and  peace  of 
mind  that  excellent  man.  I  made  an  effort  and  told  him 
that  an  attack  of  nerves  was  added  to  my  habitual  suffer- 
ing. This  was  true,  for  one  hand  and  arm  were  twisted 
and  contracted.  I  took  an  anodyne.  M.  d'Alembert  had 
sent  for  a  doctor ;  to  deliver  myself  from  all  that,  I  sum- 
moned what  remained  to  me  of  strength  and  reason  and 
locked  myself  into  my  room  to  await  the  postman.  • 

He  came  ;  I  had  two  letters  from  you  ;  my  hands  trembled 
so  that  I  could  not  hold  nor  open  them.  Ah !  for  my  joy  the 
first  words  I  read  were,  "  Mon  amie"  My  soul,  my  lips,  my 
life  hung  on  that  paper ;  I  could  read  no  more ;  I  distin- 
guished nothing  but  stray  words  here  and  there ;  I  read : 
"  You  restore  me  to  life,  I  breathe  again."  Oh !  mon  ami, 
it  is  you  who  gave  life  to  me ;  I  should  have  died  if  you 
did  not  love  me.  Never,  no  never  did  I  experience  so 
true  a  feeling. 

At  last  I  read,  re-read,  ten  times,  twenty  times,  the  words 
that  poured  consolation  into  my  heart.  Mon  ami,  in  return- 
ing to  me  you  bmd  me  once  more  to  life  ;  yes,  I  feel  it,  I  love 
you  more  than  happiness  or  pleasure.  I  can  live  deprived  of 
both ;  I  shall  love  you,  and  when  that  does  not  suffice,  it  will 
be  time  to  die.  Yes,  we  shall  be  virtuous ;  I  will  answer  for 
it ;  your  happiness,  your  duty  are  sacred  to  me.  I  should 
feel  a  horror  if  I  found  in  me  one  emotion  that  could  trouble 
them.  Ah  !  my  God !  if  I  could  have  a  single  thought  that 
wounded   virtue,  you   woiild   make   me   shudder.     No,  my 


17753  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  243 

friend,  you  will  have  nothing  with  which  to  reproach 
yourself ;  I  alone  shall  be  culpable ;  I  shall  be  consumed 
with  remorse  and  regrets,  but,  if  you  are  happy,  I  will 
silence  forever  all  that  might  give  you  an  idea  of  my 
sorrow. 

Mon  ami,  you  know  passion  ;  you  know  the  force  it  gives 
to  the  soul  it  possesses.  Well,  I  pledge  myself  to  join  to 
that  force  all  the  strength  that  love  of  virtue  and  contempt 
for  death  can  give,  that  I  may  never  offend  against  your 
peace  or  against  your  duties.  I  have  consulted  my  own 
self  thoroughly ;  if  you  love  me,  I  have  the  strength  of  the 
martyrs ;  but  if  I  came  to  doubt  you,  no  strength  would  re- 
main to  me  but  that  which  is  needed  to  deliver  one's  self  of 
an  intolerable  burden ;  it  would  not  fail  me ;  I  had  it  this 
morning.  You  think  that  there  is  no  degi-ee  of  passion 
beyond  that  which  I  have  shown  you.  I  answer  that  you 
know  not  everything,  that  you  see  not  everything,  and  that 
there  are  no  words  to  express  the  force  of  a  passion  which 
feeds  itself  on  tears  and  remorse,  and  desires  but  two  things  : 
to  love,  or  to  die.  There  is  nothing  of  that  in  books,  mon 
ami;  I  spent  with  you  a  certain  evening  which  would 
seem  exaggerated  if  read  on  the  pages  of  Provost,  the  man 
who  has  best  known  all  that  passion  has  of  sweet  and 
terrible. 

I  have  not  yet  received  the  packet  of  my  letters ;  I  shall 
not  feel  easy  till  I  hold  it  in  my  hand ;  I  cannot  protect 
myself  against  the  fear  that  you  have  made  some  mistake  ; 
yo'u  were  so  hurried  —  but  I  believe  that  I  will  not  reproach 
you ;  divine  if  that  is  generosity.  Mon  ami,  a  thing  has 
happened  which  would,  formerly,  have  upset  me.  Mme. 
du  Deffand  has  done  me  a  treacherous  action :  she  has 
mixed  me  up  in  that  quarrel  between  Mme.  Necker  and 
Mme.  de  Marchais;  she  has  compromised  me  with  Mme, 


244  LETTERS  OF  t»775 

d'Aiiville ;  and  it  is  all  even  more  absurd  than  malignant ; 
there  must  be  explanations.  M.  d'Angevilliers  has  also  a 
part  in  this  infernal  play ;  the  Neapolitan  ambassador  takes 
much  interest  in  it ;  M.  d'Alembert  is  furious ;  and  I,  in  the 
midst  of  it  all,  am  calm  as  innocence,  and  cold  as  indifference. 
Yesterday  my  friends  were  trying  to  excite  me  about  it ;  but 
I  answered,  "  It  will  all  come  right,"  and  they  admired  my 
coolness  in  the  midst  of  the  storm.  Ah !  that  was  because  I 
had  one  of  another  kind  ready  to  burst  upon  my  head ;  there 
was  nothing  on  earth  so  important  to  me  as  the  arrival  of  the 
courier  from  Bordeaux.  Ah  !  man  Dieu  !  I  can  defy  all  the 
furies  of  hell  when  I  am  content  with  you.  There  is  the  ad- 
vantage, the  cruel  advantage,  of  misfortune :  it  kills  the  little 
griefs  that  agitate  the  lives  of  people  in  society.  I  feel  that 
I  shall  come  safely  out  of  this  turmoil  because  I  put  neither 
heat  nor  interest  into  it.  I  blame  myself,  however,  for  tell- 
ing you  so  much  about  it ;  but  if  you  were  here  you  would 
hear  far  more ;  this  affair  has  taken  the  place  of  that  of 
M.  de.  Guignes. 

The  chevalier  has  brought  me  news  of  you.  You  tell  me 
that  you  keep  in  your  heart  the  "  insults,"  the  "  horrors " 
that  I  have  said  to  you.  Well,  what  will  you  do  with  them  ? 
You  know  that  I  annulled  them  all ;  I  live,  and  I  love  you ; 
that  is  what  remains  of  my  despair  and  my  hatred.  You  say 
you  are  "  collecting  your  reason "  to  answer  me :  you  need 
not  do  so ;  and  I,  I  am  so  reasonable,  when  my  paroxysms  of 
madness  are  calmed,  that  in  truth  it  would  be  too  wasteful  to 
use  your  reason  and  your  arguments  on  me :  nevertheless,  I 
await  them  with  impatience.  Oh !  how  far  Saturday  is  from 
Wednesday  !  "  how  for  the  sad  the  hours  slowly  fly  !  " 

Good-night,  mon  ami.  I  will  end  this  volume  another 
day,  for  it  cannot  go  till  Tuesday.  I  have  been  ill  three 
days ;  I  was  on  the  rack,  but  you  have  cured  me. 


1775]  MLLE.  DE   LESPINASSE.  245 

Thursday,  July  24,  1776. 
Mon  ami,  I  should  like  to  seek  you  and  meet  you  every- 
where, talk  to  you  incessantly,  see  you,  and  listen  to  you 
always.  I  wrote  to  you  at  Bordeaux,  at  Montauban,  and 
again  to-day  at  Bordeaux;  and  all  perhaps  uselessly,  for  if 
you  are  to  be  here  on  the  1st  you  must  have  started  on  the 
26  th.  So  much  the  better.  You  will  not  get  my  letters, 
but  I  shall  see  you,  and  I  cannot  bring  myself- to  believe 
that  that  pleasure  will  only  hurt  me :  you  are  so  gentle,  so 
sensible,  so  amiable  that  perhaps  I  shall  feel  that  only. 

But  why  did  I  have  no  letter  from  you  by  the  last  courier  ? 
is  it  that  time  was  always  lacking  to  come  to  the  help  of 
one  who  suffers  ?  Oh,  yes,  I  suffer,  suffer  much ;  I  have 
internal  organs  that  do  their  best  to  distract  me  from  the  ills 
of  my  soul.  Yesterday  I  had  frightful  pains ;  I  spent  the 
morning  in  my  bath  and  I  obtained  a  little  relief.  Mon 
ami,  come  soon  —  and  yet  I  shall  seldom  see  you;  a  wife,  a 
tragedy  to  put  upon  the  stage,  your  duties  ;  what  will  remain 
for  a  poor  thing  who  lives  only  to  love  and  suffer  ?  Yes  !  I 
feel  it,  I  am  condemned  to  love  you  so  long  as  I  shall 
breathe.  When  my  forces  are  exhausted  by  grief,  then  I 
love  you  with  tenderness ;  when  I  am  inspired,  when  my 
soul  has  its  spring,  then  I  love  you  with  passion.  Moii  ami, 
the  last  breath  of  my  life  will  be  still  the  expression  of  my 
feeling.  Adieu.  If  you  read  this  letter,  answer  it,  and  do 
not  fancy  you  will  get  here  sooner  than  a  letter.  Mon  ami, 
be  careful  not  to  come  to  me  the  first  time  when  I  have 
company.  Adieu,  adieu ;  I  love  you,  and  I  believe  it  is 
because  I  have  loved  you. 

Tuesday,  August  1,  1775. 
Mo7i  ami,  I  have  just  finished  Catinat;   I  had  never  so 
well   understood   it,  so  felt   it.     I    cannot   doubt   that   the 
Academy  will  feel   its  value:   those  that  compete  may  be 


246  LETTERS   OF  [1775 

good,  but  they  will  be  at  a  great  ilistance.  You  alarm  me 
for  the  others  whom  I  know ;  but  I  do  not  wish  to  discourage 
them. 

So  then,  mon  ami,  you  have  found  nothing  to  say  in  reply 
to  me  ?  But,  at  any  rate,  bring  back  to  me  my  foolish  writ- 
ings ;  if  necessary,  I  will  make  you  a  commentary  this  even- 
ing on  that  text.  I  shall  see  you  this  morning;  perhaps 
you  will  be  amiable  enough  to  come  early  this  evening.  It 
must  be  owned  that  the  dead  have  no  such  days.  Good-bye. 
I  said  yesterday  words  that  stopped  the  circulation  of  my 
blood ;  I  said  I  desired  your  departure,  which  was  as  if  I 
had  said,  "  I  would  I  were  dead  "  —  but  that  is  true  often. 
So  you  found  it  very  embarrassing  to  answer  me ;  let  it  be ; 
I  know  a  secret  to  remove  that  embarrassment,  to  make 
myself  beloved,  yes,  beloved,  and  with  energy ;  but  we  must 
not  come  to  the  grand  means  before  the  last  possible 
moment.     Eeturn  my  book  immediately. 

August  16,  1775. 
I  am  so  much  in  the  habit  of  suffering  and  of  feeling  only 
pain,  that  I  doubt  if  I  could  have  been  keenly  alive  to  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  your  Eulogy  crowned  by  the  Academy.^ 
It  would  have  seemed  to  me  simple  justice,  and  I  think  I 
should  merely  have  enjoyed  what  might  have  been  flattering 
in  that  success  to  your  vanity.  But  I  own  that  I  feel  and  I 
resent,  too  warmly  perhaps,  the  affront  of  seeing  you  sub- 
jected to  formulas  invented  by  pedants  for  the  encourage- 
ment and  reward  of  school-boys.  One  accessit  [extra  prize] 
would  have  been  a  shocking  stupidity,  but  two  accessits 
seem  to  me  an  offensive  impertinence,  and  it  does  not  matter 
what  modification  or  distinction  they  may  give  to  it  on  the 

1  The  Eulogy  of  La  Harpe  was  crowned ;  that  of  the  Abbe  d'Espagnac 
took  the  second  prize  ;  M.  de  Guibert  a  third.  — Fk.  Ed, 


1775]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  247 

day  of  the  public  session.  If  Voltaire  had  competed  and 
they  had  given  you  a  secondary  place,  that  would  have 
been  simple  enough ;  but  to  be  in  the  suite  of  M.  de  La 
Harpe,  and  beside  a  young  abbe  only  twenty  years  old, 
disgusts  me  to  a  degree  that  I  cannot  express,  but  which  I 
cannot  restrain.  It  wounds  my  pride  ;  it  makes  me  unjust ; 
for  it  pushes  my  soul  into  dislike  of  him  who  is  preferred  to 
you.  Be  more  temperate  than  I  am,  if  you  can ;  that  will  be 
honourable  and  generous  in  you ;  and  perhaps  you  will  find 
in  the  consciousness  of  your  talents  and  in  a  sense  of  your 
strength  the  wherewithal  to  disdain  that  accessit.  All  the 
academies  in  the  universe  cannot  make  you  descend  from 
the  place  to  which  Nature  raised  you.  I  know  all  that;  I 
say  it  to  myself ;  but  I  feel  such  disgust,  and  I  am  so  close 
to  it,  that  what  I  suffer  goes  far  beyond  what  I  thiuk.  .  ,  . 
I  want  to  see  you,  and  talk  over  with  you  the  course  you 
will  take  in  regard  to  printing  the  Eulogy.  My  advice 
would  be  that  it  should  be  given  to  the  public  before  that  of 
M.  de  La  Harpe,  which  will  not  be  read  till  the  25th  op 
printed  before  the  28th  or  30th.  This  opinion  is  not  dictated 
by  reflection,  but  you  can  see  if  it  agrees  with  yours. 

I  have  no  right  to  be  severe ;  but  I  shall  always  feel  a 
shock  when  you  fail  in  friendship ;  and  you  have  wounded 
me  in  not  yielding  to  the  request  I  made  to  you,  which  I 
felt  sure  would  be  granted.  You  ought  to  have  no  further 
curiosity,  or  interest  in  the  expression  of  my  affection ;  it  has 
been  so  well  known  to  you ;  you  repulsed  it  so  cruelly  in 
the  days  when  you  exacted  the  most  proof  of  it  that  I  am 
forced  to  think  the  value  you  now  appear  to  put  upon  it  is 
only  an  effect  of  your  scruples,  and  perhaps  a  means  of  stifl- 
ing your  conscience,  which  tells  you,  louder  than  I  have  ever 
done,  that  you  have  abused  my  misfortune  while  seeming  to 
wish  to  soften  it.     Have  virtue  enough  to  save  me  from  the 


2*48  LETTERS   OF  [1775 

last  degree  of  humiliation,  that  of  becoming  an  object  of 
your  pity  :  for  it  is  nothing  else  than  that  which  is  now 
bringing  you  back  to  me ;  and  I  confess  to  you  that,  in  spite 
of  the  invincible  attraction  which  draws  me  to  you,  that 
thought  revolts  every  faculty  of  my  soul.  What !  I,  who 
have  been  loved  by  M.  de  Mora,  I,  who  was  the  object  of 
the  passion  of  that  noblest,  strongest,  and  most  virtuous  soul, 
shall  I  be  humiliated  by  you  ?  Ah  !  leave  me  to  my  remorse ; 
it  annihilates  me.  I  am  culpable,  I  am  punished  ;  M.  de 
Mora  is  avenged.  What  more  do  you  want  ?  To  crush  me, 
to  sink  me  beneath  your  pity  ?  I  declare  to  you  that  I  do 
not  feel  myself  born  for  that  abject  position ;  you  hasten 
my  death. 

I  cannot  yet  see  clearly  whether  it  is  to  my  love  that  I 
still  cling,  or  whether  I  am  held  back  by  the  horror  I 
feel  at  causing  the  unhappiness  of  two  persons  who  would 
give  their  lives  for  me.  My  death  would  overwhelm  them  ; 
I  am  not  mistaken  as  to  that ;  I  would  that  I  could  detach 
them,  remove  them  from  me ;  I  should  be  freer ;  I  could  de- 
liver myself  from  the  torture  that  is  killing  me,  and  you 
from  the  necessity  of  seeing  me  or  avoiding  me. 

I  ought  to  tell  you,  in  the  interests  of  truth  and  justice, 
that  MM.  Suard,  Armand,  and  d'Alembert  did  the  impos- 
sible to  spare  you  that  accessit  ;  but  ten  Academicians  car- 
ried the  day  against  them,  and  these  men  had  the  custom 
and  statutes  of  the  Academy  to  support  them.  They  decided 
that  on  the  day  of  the  public  session  they  would  speak  in 
the  highest  praise  of  your  excellent  work ;  three  of  them 
voted  to  split  the  prize.  That  is  enough  said  ;  I  wish  never 
to  speak  of  it  again,  except  once  to  you. 


1775]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  249 

August  28,  eleven  at  night,   1775. 
"The  mind  is  always  the  dupe  of  the  heart." 

How  true  that  is,  how  correct,  when  we  have  to  do  with  the 
man  most  open,  most  susceptible  to  all  impressions.  That 
is  what  my  experience  tells  me,  and  my  heart,  in  a  low 
voice,  denies  it ;  it  says,  "  He  will  return,"  and  all  that  is 
within  me,  repeats,  "  I  shall  see  him."  Oh  '  mon  ami,  you 
do  not  deserve  the  struggles  I  go  through ;  you  do  not 
deserve  the  sacrifice  I  have  made  to  you,  not  only  of  my  life, 
but  of  my  death  ;  above  all,  you  do  not  deserve  the  trouble, 
the  annoyances,  the  obstacles  that  my  affection  for  you  has 
brought  into  the  most  critical  situation  of  my  life :  and  that 
affection,  that  fatality  will  have  more  to  say ;  whatever 
course  I  take  it  must  be  filled  by  regret  and  repentance. 
Oh  !  my  God !  my  life  is  weary  ;  it  has  been  too  full ;  nature 
isolated  me ;  I  was  born  for  obscurity  and  repose,  and  I  have 
been  a  prey  to  all  the  passions !  I  have  known  all  misfor- 
tunes. Ah !  if  I  had  not  loved  M.  de  Mora,  what  evil  I 
should  say  of  life  ! 

Mon  ami,  I  meant  to  have  said  but  one  word,  and,  in  spite 
of  myself,  my  soul  pours  itself  out  in  search  of  yours ;  the 
habit  of  being  loved  still  deludes  me ;  I  turn  to  you,  and  it  is 
not  he  —  ah  no  !  it  is  not  he  !  My  God  !  what  memories  ! 
They  extinguish  me,  they  desolate  me  ! 

Will  you  come  to-morrow,  Tuesday,  to  the  Salon  of  pic- 
tures, at  a  quarter  past  one  ?  I  will  not  make  it  a  point  of 
honour  with  you,  but  I  must  say  that  you  alone  will  not  be 
punctual  at  the  rendezvous.  Wliat  folly  to  go  and  engage 
yourself  to  dine  with  Comte  de  Creutz  on  Wednesday  in  pref- 
erence to  Mme,  Geoffrin  !  —  Mon  ami,  although  you  dispar- 
age all  that  I  experience,  all  that  I  love,  tell  me  if  you  do 
not  think  the  following  way  of  saying  a  thing  very  charm- 


250.  -  LETTERS   OF  [1775 

ing :  some  one  said  to  rue,  in  asking  news  of  M.  de  Saint 
Chamans,  "  You  know  how  I  love  him  with  your  heart  and 
my  own."  That  is  better  than  Mme.  de  Sdvign^'s  phrase 
about  her  daughter's  chest.  ["  I  have  pam  in  your  chest."] 
You  have  six  letters  of  mine  to  return,  counting  this  one.  I 
must  have  the  six  if  you  wish  me  to  say  four  words  t©  you 
to-morrow.  I  urge  myself  to  say  three  now,  which  you 
hear  too  often  —  I  1  .  .  .  y.  .  ,  but  less ;  yes,  less,  I  am  certain 
of  it. 

"  We  always  like  those  who  admire  us ; "  I  really  have  wit 
to-night,  for  that  is  La  Rochefoucauld's.  Good-night.  I  wish 
I  knew  the  secret  of  your  vanity ;  in  return  you  should  have 
that  of  my  love.  Ah !  but  you  know  it ;  what  matters  all 
the  rest  ? 

Tuesday,  August  29,  1775. 

So  you  do  not  care  whether  you  are  written  to,  inasmuch  as 
you  do  not  point  out  the  way  ?  but,  as  I  am  very  ingenuous  in 
one  direction  I  have  charged  one  of  M.  Turgot's  valets  to  look 
for  you  everywhere  and  find  you  somewhere.  Do  not  forget 
to  send  me  word  how  many  seats  there  are  in  the  box  you 
intend  for  me  [at  the  representation  of  his  play,  the  "  Conn6- 
table  de  Bourbon,"  before  the  Court  at  Versailles]. 

Believe  if  you  can,  tell  yourself  that  the  truth  is  not  prob- 
able, but  it  is,  nevertheless,  certain  that  I  have  been  a  great 
deal  with  your  wife  to-day ;  I  went  forward  to  meet  her,  I 
spoke  to  her  of  her  health,  of  her  talents,  of  all  that  was  there 
before  our  eyes  in  the  Salon ;  in  short,  I  venture  to  answer 
for  it  that  you  will  hear  I  am  "  very  amiable  "  and  you  will 
not  believe  it.  But  do  you  know  what  I  really  am,  and  to 
what  you  must  accustom  yourself  to  think  of  me  ?  I  am 
the  sister  of  the  wife  of  Grandison.  I  am  becoming  so 
perfect  that  it  frightens  me ;  I  think  I  must  be  a  swan  — 
her  death-song,  they  say,  is  perfect.     Well,  that  is  some- 


1775]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.    .  251 

thing :  you  will  say,  "  She  died  at  the  wrong  time  —  what 
a  pity!" 

Mon  ami,  I  have  a  grief ;  one  of  my  friends  is  very  ill, 
very  unhappy.  I  spent  two  hours  with  him  last  evening ;  I 
wept  with  him  and  I  felt  I  calmed  and  consoled  him  a  little. 
Alas!  it  is  but  too  true  that  "the  heart  knoweth  its  own 
bitterness." 

Ten  o'clock,  1775. 

It  is  not  pride  or  self-love  which  rejects  your  pardon; 
it  is  a  most  true  and  tender  sentiment,  which  assures  me 
that  I  cannot  have  offended  you.  Eeflect  that  if  —  by 
impossibility  —  I  could  have  a  bad  opinion  of  you,  I  should 
be  forced  to  despise  myself  forever.  Rely,  therefore,  not  on 
your  virtues,  not  on  my  justice,  but  on  all  the  kinds  of  love 
that  stir  the  hearts  of  men.  If  I  hated  you  I  should  still 
esteem  you ;  therefore,  all  things  forbid  you  to  suspect  that 
I  can  cease  to  respect  you  ;  that  is  the  strongest  of  my  feel- 
ings ;  that  is  the  basis  of  them  all,  the  excuse  for  them,  if 
there  be  need  of  that.  In  that  moment  when  you  woimded' 
me  most,  when  I  renounced  you,  I  still  esteemed  you  ;  and  of 
all  the  letters  I  have  ever  written  to  you,  there  is  not  one 
in  which  my  sorrow,  my  wrong,  my  weakness  were  stated, 
avowed,  and  blamed  with  greater  simplicity  and  truth  than 
in  that  letter  of  which  you  now  speak  to  me.  If  this  is  not 
my  confession  of  faith  as  to  my  esteem,  my  confidence,  my 
perfect  trust  in  your  integrity,  then  dictate  to  me  another, 
and  I  will  sign  it  with  my  blood. 

You  have  not  seen  me  because  the  day  is  only  twelve 
hours  long,  and  you  have  pleasures  and  interests  enough 
that  are,  and  ought  to  be,  dearer  than  my  griefs,  to  fill  those 
hours.  I  claim  nothing,  I  exact  nothing,  and  I  tell  myself 
incessantly  that  the  source  of  my  happiness  and  my  pleasure 
is  lost  forever. 


252  LETTERS   OF  [1775 

No,  I  shall  not  go  to  see  the  "  Conn^table ; "  I  can  no  longer 
judge  or  enjoy  such  things.  I  shall  take  the  keenest  interest 
in  your  success  and  be  crowned  by  it. 

August  26,  two  o'clock,  1775. 

A  thousand  thanks  to  you,  mon  (wii.  You  are  kind  to 
have  persevered  in  getting  me  this  box.  I  did  not  receive 
the  tickets  until  nine  o'clock  this  morning,  and  I  fear  you 
were  importuned  by  the  sending  of  a  courier ;  who  was  sent 
because  those  ladies  were  much  alarmed  at  not  having 
received  the  box  by  midnight  yesterday.  But,  mon 
ami,  you  are  not  so  kind,  you  are  even  unjust  when 
you  say  that  I  "  like  to  give  you  pain."  Ah !  bon  Dieu  ! 
what  a  strange  sort  of  pleasure  that  would  be  '  If  you 
call  telling  you  the  truth  liking  to  give  you  pain,  then 
it  would  be  useless  to  love  or  to  be  loved;  it  would  be 
odious  to  be  in  intimacy  what  we  are  in  society,  masked 
forever.  Mon  ami,  a.t  five  o'clock,  when  the  "Conn^table" 
begins,  I  shall  do  like  some  prophet,  I  forget  which,  who 
raised  his  arms  to  heaven  while  Joshua  fought.  Oh,  yes ! 
my  thought,  my  soul  will  be  with  you ;  no  matter,  after 
that,  where  my  person  is.  I  shall  be  lying  on  a  sofa  at 
the  Marquise  de  Saint-Chamans',  who  is  still  very  ill,  and 
who  has  sent  all  her  children  to  the  "  Conn^table."  Mon 
ami,  I  do  hope  you  will  come  back  from  Versailles  this 
evening. 

Of  three  dinners,  which  will  you  choose  ?  to-morrow  at  the 
Duchesse  d'Anville's ;  Monday  with  the  Comte  de  Creutz 
[Swedish  minister]  ;  Tuesday  with  M.  de  Vaines.  I  did 
not  close  my  eyes  all  night,  and  I  suffered  much  in  my 
stomach ;  but  I  am  less  unhappy  than  for  the  last  two 
days.  Mon  Dieu  !  how  sick  at  heart  I  have  been !  I  had 
a  rush  of  despair  which  lasted  sixty  hours ;  I  saw  no  one 


1775]  MLLE.  DE   LESPlNASSE.  253 

during  that  time,  not  even  those  who,  I  was  very  sure,  would 
have  pleasure  in  seeing  me.  Mon  ami,  I  love  you,  but  it  is 
with  so  much  distress  and  so  little  confidence,  that,  in  truth, 
my  feeling  is  nearly  always  a  great  ill ;  formerly  I  felt  it  to 
be  always  a  great  pleasure. 

Good-bye ;  if  you  are  at  the  height  of  glory,  tell  me ;  if 
you  are  not  satisfied,  tell  me  still;  it  is  to  me  it  should 
be  told,  because  what  is  you  is  more  I  than  I  myself. 
Adieu. 

August  26,  half-past  eleven  at  night. 
I  say  like  Blue  Beard :  "  Sister  Anne,  sister  Anne,  do  you 
see  no  one  coming  ? "  M.  d'Alembert  does  not  come  [back 
from  Versailles].  I  do  not  want  details,  but  before  I  sleep 
I  must  hear  these  words :  "  Never  was  there  so  great  a 
success."  When  I  have  heard  those  sweet  words  I  shall 
sing  the  song  of  Simeon.  Yes !  it  would  be  sweet  to 
me,  sweeter  than  ever,  to  sleep  this  night  the  eternal 
sleep. 

Mon  Dieu !  how  vexed  with  myself  I  am.  They  had 
offered  to  send  me  a  courier,  and  then  a  second  courier  to  let 
me  know  in  duplicate  :  "  Great  success  "  or  "  Middling  suc- 
cess." I  refused  that  mark  of  kindness ;  I  did  not  wish  to 
be  under  the  obligation.  In  short,  I  was  silly,  and  I  am  fam- 
ished ;  but  I  feared  also  that  this  anxiety  would  show  too 
profound  an  interest.  I  judged  right,  and  I  am  satisfied 
with  myself  in  that  respect.  Oh  !  what  happiness !  and,  as 
the  Neapolitan  ambassador  says,  "what  joy  in  the  home." 
Mon  ami,  you  will  never  have  as  much  as  I  wish  you ;  you 
will  never  feel  it  with  as  much  transport  as  I  wish  it.  —  Ah  ! 
here  comes  M.  d'Alembert !  "  Success  has  passed  all  bounds  " 
—  that  scene  in  the  third  act,  the  finest  on  the  stage,  was 
much  applauded. 

Adieu,  mon  ami ;  you  will  think  me  mad,  but  the  first 


25'4  LETTERS   OF  [1775 

wish  of  my  heart  is  —  not  to  see  you,  but  that  you  shall  see 
that  which  can  make  you  enjoy  your  happiness,  especially 
those  who  have  shared  it.  Do  not  see  me  for  a  few  days ; 
enjoy  —  and  do  not  cast  your  eyes  on  an  object  you  ought 
never  to  have  seen.  I  only  ask  you  for  one  hour  before  your 
departure.     I  am  well  used  to  farewells. 

Sunday,  September  17,  1775. 
Ah,  no !  I  am  not  happy  enough,  nor  unhappy  enough  to 
"  make  gall  and  poison  "  of  what  you  say.  You  have  settled 
things  plainly  ;  with  a  word  you  have  chilled  my  soul  and  you 
have  also  chilled  what  you  believe  to  be  the  expression  of  a 
sentiment.  Remember  the  secret  that  escaped  you.  It  has 
given  me  the  clue  to  a  thousand  things  that  had  seemed  to 
me  inexplicable ;  it  has  made  me  retract  a  mistaken  judg- 
ment which  I  had  formed  through  ignorance  of  the  truth. 
I  believed  that  I  was  reading  the  letter  of  a  young  girl  of 
seventeen,  addressed  to  a  man  who  had  been  her  husband 
for  four  days ;  instead  of  that  she  was  a  young  woman  writ- 
ing to  a  man  who  has  been  in  love  with  her  for  a  year. 
Hence  what  she  said  to  him  was  the  natural  expression  of 
feelings  acknowledged  and  shared  for  a  long  time.  That 
secret,  thus  accidentally  betrayed,  has  also  explained  to  me 
the  note  which  I  received  from  the  Chateau  de  Courcelles ; 
but,  in  explaining  it,  it  does  not  justify  it ;  for  nothing  in 
nature  could  justify  such  an  outrage  ;  that  note  contained  not 
one  word  which  was  not  certain  to  revolt  my  soul  and  fill  it 
with  indignation  —  Mon  Dieu  !  and  I  could  still  see  you,  still 
listen  to  you,  still  speak  to  you !  Oh !  how  we  degrade  our- 
selves when  we  disregard  a  first  remorse !  Yes,  I  have  need 
to  repeat  to  myself,  again  and  again,  that  I  was  loved  by 
M.  de  Mora,  by  the  noblest,  strongest  soul,  by  the  most  per- 
fect human  being  who  ever  existed.     That  thought  sustains 


1775]  MLLE.  DE  LESPINASSE.  255 

my  soul,  revives  my  heart,  and  restores  to  me  sufficient  pride 
to  keep  me  from  prostration. 

You  say  I  did  not  answer  the  note  you  wrote  me  at  the 
moment  of  your  departure.  How  could  I  answer  it  ?  When 
I  now  read  expressions  of  your  feeling,  this  is  what  my 
reason  says  to  me  :  "  He  says  the  same  to  another,  —  perhaps 
with  more  strength  and  warmth ;  and  there  is  this  difference 
between  myself  and  that  other,  that  with  her  he  directs  all 
the  actions  of  his  life  to  prove  to  her  that  he  feels  what  he 
says  to  her ;  whereas  with  me,  on  the  contrary,  there  is  not 
one  of  his  actions,  not  one  of  his  movements  which  is  not  in 
opposition  to  his  words."  After  that  observation,  just  as  it  is 
and  cruelly  well  founded,  tell  me,  what  answer  have  I  to 
make  ?  Ah  !  I  appeal  to  your  conscience  :  do  you  think  that 
I  could  fathom  what  is  in  it  and  yet  preserve  for  you  the 
feelings  you  desire  ?  Well,  I  dare  to  assure  you  that  if  you 
fathom  mine  you  will  find  no  fault  there  but  the  one  I  have 
acknowledged.  I  have  not  had  one  thought,  one  impulse 
that  did  not  deserve  your  esteem,  —  if  it  can  be  given  to  one 
who  has  sacrificed  to  you  that  which  ought  to  have  been 
dearer  than  even  honour. 

But  tell  me,  why  do  you  make  me  the  object  of  your 
lecture  and  of  the  exercise  of  your  virtue  ?  You  are  late  in 
thinking  of  it ;  and  if  you  are  imposing  that  task  upon  your- 
self in  expiation  of  the  harm  you  have  done,  I  warn  you  that 
you  are  still  misled.  Give  up  the  desire  to  make  me  a  victim 
of  your  ethics,  after  having  made  me  that  of  your  levity.  I 
have  told  you  a  hundred  times  that  you  can  do  nothing  more 
for  me  but  make  me  suffer.  I  assure  you  that  I  do  not  seek 
to  make  you  reproaches.  I  forgive  you  with  all  my  heart ;  and 
what  I  say  to  you  to-day  is  only  in  reply  to  your  letter.  In 
your  note  of  Saturday  you  showed  me  the  fear  you  had  lest 
the  influence  of  the  sorrow  you  pretended  to  feel  should  fall 


256  LETTERS   OF  [1775 

upon  your  wife.  What  reply  was  I  to  make  to  that !  That 
the  fear  alone  was  sufficient  to  protect  her ;  that  the  sacrifice 
you  made  to  her  of  your  time,  your  affections,  your  person 
ought  also  to  guarantee  her.  What  can  I  add  to  that  ? 
That  I  wish  her  security  ;  this  is,  in  truth,  all  that  we  can 
wish  to  one  with  whom  we  have  no  relations.  Those  persons 
who  have  not  seen  you  with  your  wife,  and  who  do  not  know, 
as  I  now  do,  that  you  liave  loved  her  for  a  year  past,  say  that 
you  have  converted  the  duties  of  maniage  into  servitude. 
They  think  that  the  striking  of  eleven  o'clock  is  as  austere 
as  a  convent  rule  :  which  you  see  is  talking  nonsense  because 
they  are  not  in  the  secret  [of  his  previous  attachment  to 
his  wife].  As  for  me  who  am,  and  who  ought  to  tell  you 
—  but,  no  !  that  is  enough  for  to-day. 

Oh !  I  am  very  uneasy ;  the  Vicomte  de  Chamans  grows 
worse  and  worse ;  they  do  not  understand  his  state ;  it 
alarms  me.  The  Comte  de  Creutz  was  in  tears  yesterday; 
his  wife  was  successfully  confined,  but  the  child  is  dead.  It 
is  not  the  child  he  mourns,  but  his  wife's  grief  and  the  tor- 
ture he  finds  in  deceiving  her  as  to  the  child's  state.  Happy 
people  have  their  troubles  !  Yes,  inasmuch  as  you  say  you 
have  so  many ;  but  you  admit  that  exercise  and  activity 
relieve  them,  and  I  believe  it. 

My  health  is  worse  than  ever ;  I  have  had  several  attacks 
of  fever ;  but  I  have  made  a  vow  not  to  poison  myself  in  a 
doctor's  way.  Adieu.  I  require  neither  your  sentiments,  nor 
your  moral  philosophy,  nor  your  virtue.  See  how  free  I  set 
you. 

Saturday,  four  o'clock  in  the  morning,  September  23,  1775. 

Alas !  it  is  true,  we  survive  everything !  the  excess  of  sor- 
row becomes  its  remedy  !  Ah  !  mon  Dieu  !  the  moment  has 
arrived  when  I  can  say  to  you,  "  I  can  live  without  loving 
you  "  with  as  much  truth  as  when  I  said  to  you  three  months 


1775]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  257 

ago,  "  I  must  love  you  or  cease  to  be."  My  passion  has  gone 
through  all  the  convulsions,  all  the  crises  of  a  great  illness. 
First,  I  had  continued  fever  with  paroxj^sms  and  delirium ; 
then  the  fever  ceased  to  be  continued,  it  turned  to  inter- 
mittent attacks,  but  so  violent  were  they,  so  irregular,  that 
the  disease  seemed  to  grow  more  acute.  After  keeping  a 
long  time  at  this  degree  of  danger  it  has  lessened  a  little ; 
the  attacks  are  fewer,  and  they  are  weaker.  I  have  had  in- 
tervals of  calmness  that  seemed  like  health,  or  that  seemed 
to  allow  some  hope  of  it.  After  a  while  the  fever  nearly 
ceased,  and  for  the  last  few  days  I  feel  as  if  nothiug  were 
left  of  it  but  the  trembling  and  great  weakness  that  always 
follow  long  and  terrible  dlnesses.  I  think  I  am  conscious  of 
a  coming  convalescence ;  not  the  kind  that  M.  de  Saint-Lam- 
bert describes  :  "  Oh  !  how  the  soul  enjoys  its  convalescence." 
No,  mine  can  never  again  know  joy,  but  it  will  be  soothed, 
it  will  no  longer  be  actively  torn,  and  that  will  be  much  ;  for 
though  I  am  delivered  from  a  very  cruel  ill,  an  old  one,  more 
sorrowful,  deeper,  more  heart-breaking,  still  remains ;  that 
wound  can  never  close ;  it  is  irritated  and  poisoned  by  the 
grief  and  remorse  of  all  the  moments  of  my  life.  It  may 
find  anodynes,  the  only  remed}-  for  incurable  Uls. 

That  is  the  history  and  a  most  faithful  narrative  of 
the  state  of  my  soul ;  there  is  not  a  word,  not  a  circum- 
stance that  is  not  applicable  to  my  present  situation.  I 
have  loved  you  with  madness ;  I  have  gone  through  all 
phases,  all  degi-ees  of  sorrow  and  of  passion ;  I  wanted  to 
die ;  I  believed  I  was  dying ;  but  I  was  held  back  by  the 
charm  attached  to  passion,  even  to  unliappy  passion.  Since 
then,  I  have  reflected ;  I  wavered  long,  I  suffered  still ;  and 
then  —  I  know  not  if  it  is  you,  if  it  is  your  conduct,  if  it  is 
the  necessity,  perhaps  the  extremity  of  my  misfortune  — 
then  all  things  brought  me  back  to  a  less  fatal  state  of  mind. 

17 


258  LETTERS   OF  [1775 

I  have  looked  about  me  ;  I  have  found  friends  whom  my  un- 
happiness,  my  madness  had  not  alienated ;  I  felt  I  was  sur- 
rounded by  care  and  kindness,  and  signs  of  interest.  In  the 
midst  of  such  succour,  such  resources,  1  found  a  brighter, 
more  animated  sentiment ;  it  is  so  true,  so  tender,  so  sweet, 
that  in  the  end  it  nmst  bring  calmness  and  consolation  into 
my  soul.  Can  I  ask  for  better  or  more  than  that  ?  After 
the  fi'ightful  tempest  that  has  battered  me  for  the  last  three 
years  is  not  this  entering  into  port  ?  is  it  not  seeing  already 
a  clearer  sky  ? 

No,  do  not  think  that  I  exaggerate  the  progress  of  my 
cure ;  I  see  myself  such  as  1  am,  and  if  1  feel  a  little  calmer 
it  is  because  I  believe  myself  a  little  more  susceptible  to  con- 
solation. No  doubt  it  would  have  cost  me  less  to  die  than 
to  separate  from  you.  A  quick  death  would  have  satisfied 
my  nature  and  my  passion  ;  but  the  torture  you  have  given 
to  my  soul  is  exhausted ;  it  has  lost  its  vitality ;  and  then,  I 
feel  myself  beloved ;  that  softens  everything.  How  shall  we 
quit  life  when  the  tenderest  sentiments  strive  to  retain  us  ? 

Ah  !  I  ought  to  have  died  at  the  moment  when  I  lost  him 
who  loved  me  and  whom  I  loved  more  than  all  else  on 
earth !  That  is  the  sole  blame  I  lay  on  you.  Why  did  yau 
retain  me  ?  Was  it  to  condemn  me  to  a  lingering  and  more 
cruel  death  than  the  one  I  sought  ?  Would  to  God  I  could 
efface  from  my  memory  and  blot  from  my  life  these  last 
years  that  have  just  gone  by '  Those  that  preceded  them 
would  forever  have  been  the  charm,  if  the  torture,  of  my 
heart.  Ah  !  six  years  of  pleasure  and  of  heaven's  own  happi- 
ness ought  to  make  me  feel  that  existence  is  a  boon  for 
which  I  should  render  thanks  to  Heaven,  even  at  the  summit 
of  unhappiness. 

If  I  can  recover  repose,  if  my  soul  can  steady  itself,  per- 
haps the  few  remaining  days  I  have  to  live  may  still  be  bear- 


1775]  MLLE.  BE   LESPINASSE.  259 

able.  I  will  try  to  make  my  consolation  of  that  which 
would  be  the  happiness  and  joy  of  another.  I  will  love  from 
gi'atitude  that  which  ought  to  be  better  loved  if  T  responded 
to  the  warmth  and  eagerness  of  the  friendship  shown  to  me. 
For  three  months  I  have  to  blame  myself  for  repulsing  coldly 
and  harshly  the  expression  of  the  warmest  interest,  springing 
from  the  truest  sentiment,  of  which  I  have  received  unequiv- 
ocal proof,  and  you  know  how  cautious  I  am  in  the  matter 
of  proof.  I  surprise  you,  no  doubt ;  you  think  I  dream ; 
every  word  I  say  seems  to  you  to  violate  truth  and  proba- 
bility. Well,  that  will  prove  to  you  what  you  must  already 
have  seen,  but  never  perhaps  in  so  extreme  a  case,  that 
"  truth  may  sometimes  seem  untruthful." 

Alas !  it  seems  to  me  as  surprising  as  it  will  to  you.  I 
am  confounded  that  any  one  remains  on  earth  who  puts 
his  pleasure  and  his  hope  on  the  saddest  being  in  the  world 
and  the  one  most  fitted  to  repulse  affection.  Can  excess  of 
grief  be  an  attraction  for  certain  souls  ?  Yes,  I  see  it, 
another  soul  has  need  to  pity,  to  take  interest,  to  be  roused, 
and  coming  near  me  takes,  or  shares,  that  disposition  without 
my  willing  it.  For  a  long  time  past  I  have  noticed  that  this 
man  never  left  me  without  emotion  ;  and  I  have  inwardly 
felt  that  sorrow,  illness,  and  old  age  were  taking  the  place 
to  him  of  graces,  youth,  and  charm.  Do  you  think  it  pos- 
sible to  be  vain  of  having  this  attraction  for  an  honest  and 
sensible  man  ?  I  am  not  vain  of  it ;  I  am  too  uuhapp}',  too 
profoundly  unhappy  to  be  accessible  to  the  pleasures  and 
foUies  of  vanity.  I  have  not  told  you  of  this  before  because 
I  feared  that  to  speak  of  it  might  give  it  too  much  consis- 
tency ;  I  would  not  even  allow  my  thoughts  to  dwell  upon 
it.  In  the  first  days  of  my  despair,  when  you  passed  sen- 
tence against  my  peace  and  life,  I  rejected  with  horror  all 
that  could  separate  me  from  you ;  rather  than  that  I  pre- 


260  LETTERS   OF  '  [1775 

ferred  to  die.  I  hoped  to  calm  myself  upon  that  sentence 
thus  pronounced  against  me;  I  believed  joir  presence  would 
still  be  good  for  me,  that  you  would  tell  me  what  I  had 
need  to  hear ;  that  you  yourself  would  help  me  to  bear  the 
blow  that  you  had  struck  me.  I  have  found  nothing  of  the 
kind ;  and  without  pretending  to  complain,  or  even  to  blame 
you,  I  am  convinced,  and  in  an  absolute  manner,  that  your 
marriage  ought  to  break  off  all  intercourse  between  us  ;  it 
only  tortures  me,  and  it  luay  become  a  burden,  perhaps  an 
odious  one,  to  you. 

In  those  first  moments  I  thought  I  could  not  live  without 
hating  you ;  but  that  dreadful  emotion  could  not  last  in  a 
soul  so  tilled  with  passion  and  tenderness.  Since  then  I  have 
gone  through  all  the  anguish,  all  the  agitations  of  sorrow ; 
until,  at  last,  I  have  reached  a  condition  of  mind  that  I 
believe  is  calmness.  It  may  be  only  exhaustion  and  dejec- 
tion ;  but,  at  least,  I  will  not  blame  myself  in  future  for 
what  I  suffer ;  that,  I  think,  will  surely  be  one  great  ill  the 
less.  Hitherto  I  have  justified  La  Eochefoucauld's  saying, 
that  "the  minds  of  most  women  serve  to  strengthen  their 
follies  only."  Oh  !  how  true  that  is  !  I  sink  with  confusion 
as  I  recall  what  I  dared  to  desire. 

Yes,  I  was  elated  enough  —  or  rather  enough  misled  —  to 
think  it  not  impossible  that  you  would  love  me  above  all 
things,  and  my  madness  gave  me  reasons  that  were  plausible 
enough  to  satisfy  my  feelings.  See,  I  beg  of  you,  to  what 
degree  of  illusion  I  was  led.  Nevertheless,  I  swear  to  you 
it  was  not  self-love  that  led  me  astray ;  on  the  contrary,  it  is 
that  which  now  assists  me  to  return  to  truth  and  reason.  It 
is  that  whicli  judges  me  to-day  with  more  severity  than  you 
can  show ;  all  that  you  have  refused  me ;  all  that  you  have 
not  been  to  me,  seems  to  me  now  only  the  necessar}'  result  of 
the  accuracy  of  your  taste  and  judgment.    But  do  not  suppose 


1775]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  261 

that  I  think  you  have  been  equitable  in  your  conduct  to  me. 
It  is  my  reason,  nothing  but  my  reason,  that  speaks  to-day. 
Seeing  myself  so  weak,  culpable,  and  mad  as  I  have  been,  I 
know  that  that  does  not  justify  the  harm  that  you  have  done 
me  —  though  I  pardon  it  with  all  my  heart.  Perhaps  one  is. 
never  consoled  for  great  humiliations ;  but  I  still  hope  that 
time  may  efface  their  impression.  I  hope  that  your  marriage 
may  make  you  as  happy  as  it  has  made  me  unhappy ;  belie\e 
that  when  that  wish  is  very  sincere,  generosity  and  good-will 
can  no  farther  go. 

I  have  received  no  answer  to  a  letter  that  I  vfrote  you  a 
week  ago.  I  do  not  complain ;  I  merely  let  you  know  the 
fact,  because  I  earnestly  desire  it  may  not  be  lost.  Before 
you  start  for  the  country  I  beg  you  to  return  to  me 
the  three  letters  I  addressed  to  you  at  ^letz ;  and  if  you 
have  received  the  above-named  letter,  sent  to  Bordeaux, 
be  good  enough  to  add  that.  I  have  not  received  your  burnt 
almonds ;  that  is  why  I  have  not  thanked  you  for  them. 
Nothing  but  hatred  turns  honey  to  poison,  and  I  have  no 
hatred. 

But,  in  truth,  I  am  distracted ;  I  know  not  which  afflicts 
me  most  —  the  harm  you  do  me  or  the  good  another  seeks  to 
do.  I  faint,  I  need  to  flee  into  a  desert  for  repose.  I  pity 
you  for  the  length  of  this  letter:  but  I  am  so  ill,  so  de- 
pressed that  I  have  not  the  strength  to  put  it  into  shape,  or  to 
take  out  its  inutilities.  I  feel  how  sorrows  long  protracted 
wear}'  the  soul  and  wear  out  the  brain ;  but  if  I  have  allowed 
myself  to  speak  thus  at  length  it  is  that  I  may  never  return 
to  this  subject ;  there  are  subjects  which  ought  never  to  be 
referred  to  again.  If  you  were  in  Paris  I  should  not  have 
written  you  a  volume,  for  you  would  not  read  it.  It  has  been 
proved  to  me  that  you  do  not  read  my  letters,  and  that  is 
natural  enough ;  they  reached  you  in  a  place  where  you  were 


262  LETTERS   OF  [1775 

seeing  and  hearing  that  which  had  quite  another  interest  for 
you  than  I  and  my  letters. 

Adieu,  mon  ami  —  this  is  the  last  time  that  I  shall  permit 
myself  to  use  that  name ;  forget  that  my  heart  has  said  it. 
Ah !  forget  me !  forget  what  I  have  suffered !  Leave  me  to 
believe  that  it  is  a  good  to  have  been  so  loved  !  leave  me  to 
believe  that  gratitude  can  suffice  my  soul.     Adieu,  adieu. 

Sunday  evening,  September  24,  1775. 

I  do  not  wish  to  make  your  prediction  false ;  you  suppose 
perhaps  that  I  have  put  temper,  a  plan,  perhaps  caprice,  into 
this,  and  that  nothing  can  excuse  it.  Keason  is  equable  and 
just,  and  it  is  time  that  I  should  abide  by  it.  You  are  mar- 
ried; you  have  loved,  you  love,  you  will  love  one  who  has 
long  attracted  you  by  the  vivacity  and  strength  of  her  feel- 
ings; that  is  natural,  that  is  in  the  order  of  thiugs,  that  is  in 
the  way  of  duty ;  and  consequently  one  must  be  stupid  or 
mad  to  enter  upon  arguments  which  would  trouble  your 
happiness  and  continue  my  torture. 

All  is  said  between  us  forever;  and,  believe  me,  let  us 
spare  the  details ;  when  once  the  thread  of  faith  is  broken  it 
should  not  be  joined  again ;  that  works  ill,  always.  At  all 
times,  under  all  circumstances,  I  have  told  you  the  truth ; 
therefore  there  is  no  confusion  or  embarrassment  to  me. 
In  all  my  life  I  have  never  deceived  any  one,  no  matter 
who,  in  this  world.  I  have  no  doubt  been  very  culpable, 
but  I  can  say  that  truth  has  ever  been  sacred  to  me.  The 
situations  in  novels  are  nothing  to  that  of  sorrow  and  despair 
in  which  I  have  passed  my  life  for  years.  No  doubt  the  novel 
which  you  have  now  begun  will  be  full  of  pleasure,  good  for- 
tune, and  whatever  can  make  your  felicity ;  I  desire  it  with 
all  my  heart.  As  for  me,  I  could  figure  only  in  the  novels  of 
Provost ;  do  you  think  I  should  be  excluded  from  "  Astr^e  "  ? 


1775]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  263 

M.  de  Saint-Chamans  is  much  better  for  the  last  two  days ; 
he  thanks  you  a  thousand  times.  M.  d'Alembert  is  much 
touched  by  your  remembrance.  The  Comte  de  Creutz  has 
returned  to  heaven  ;  mother  and  child  are  doing  well.  Mme. 
de  Chatillon  has  just  left  me.  I  hope  that  M.  d'Anlezy  will 
soon  retiirn.     I  have  no  longer  any  fever. 

Midnight,  October  5,  1775. 
This  resembles  madness,  but  it  is  reason,  and  very  reason- 
able. I  just  remember  that  I  told  you  to  answer  me  and 
return  my  letters  under  cover  to  M.  de  Yaines.  Mon  ami, 
do  only  the  half  of  that :  return  me  my  letters  to  his  address 
and  in  God's  name,  do  not  forget  a  double  envelope  ;  but 
send  your  answer  direct  to  me,  so  that  it  will  not  be  so  long 
in  coming.  I  could  not  otherwise  receive  it  till  Saturday, 
15th,  and  I  have  remembered  .that  M.  de  Yaines  goes  to 
Versailles  on  Saturdays.  That  would  delay  what  I  await 
with  an  impatience  that  fevers  me.  Mon  ami^  you  under- 
stand me  ?  do  not  be  heedless  :  your  letter  to  me,  and  my 
letters,  all  my  letters,  to  M.  de  Yaines. 

Sunday  evening,  October  15,  1775. 
Mon  ami,  we  must  be  two.  You  know  of  nothing  to  say 
to  me,  you  have  nothing  to  say  to  me  when  I  am  silent.  If 
there  were  no  one  behind  you,  no  one  to  read  over  your 
shoulder,  if  my  letters  were  not  dropped  on  the  floor,  I  would 
write  volumes  to  you,  I  would  not  wait  for  yours  ;  I  would  pour 
out  my  soul;  I  would  pass  my  life  in  complaining,  in  for- 
giving, in  loving  you.  But  how  ?  where  can  I  find  the 
strength  you  have  taken  from  me  ?  The  blow  you  struck  me 
reached  my  soul,  and  my  body  succumbed  to  it.  I  feel  it  — 
I  do  not  wish  to  alarm  you  or  interest  you,  but  I  feel  that  I 
am  dying  of  it ;  there  is  no  resource  for  me  on  earth  ;  because, 


264  LETTERS  OF  [1775 

supposing  the  impossible  —  that  you  were  free  and  were  to 
me  what  I  desired  —  it  would  be  too  late ;  the  springs  of  life 
are  broken;  I  feel  this  without  regret  and  without  terror. 
Mon  ami,  you  prevented  me  from  killing  myself,  and  you 
make  me  die.  What  inconsistency !  but  I  forgive  it ;  soon 
it  will  not  matter. 

Mon  Die  It !  I  do  not  wish  to  reproach  you :  if  you  saw 
into  my  soul  —  ah  !  it  is  far  indeed  from  wisliing  to  hurt 
you  or  to  put  an  instant's  grief  into  your  life.  No,  at  the 
summit  of  my  misery,  the  victim  of  having  loved,  feeling 
myself  as  guilty  as  I  am  unhappy,  I  find  in  my  heart  noth- 
ing but  the  keenest  desire  for  your  happiness ;  your  interests 
are  still  the  first  of  the  life  that  is  leaving  me.  Adieu,  mon 
ami ;  you  see  that  this  is  not  ill-humour ;  but  there  are  ties, 
there  are  things,  that  leave  me  to  sorrow  only.  Write  to  me ; 
tell  me  what  you  are  doing ;  tell  me  if  you  are  content ;  if  that 
which  interests  you  has  ended  as  you  desired.  In  short,  mon 
ami,  feel,  if  possible,  a  little  sweetness  in  shedding  an  in- 
stant's pleasure  into  a  deeply  wounded  heart,  which  is,  never- 
theless, all  your  own.  I  will  write  to  you  every  evening,  and 
when  you  leave  Fontainebleau  return  me  all  my  letters.  Do 
not  call  this  distrust ;  it  is  virtue  rather,  it  is  caring  for  your 
security. 

October  16,  1775. 

Mon  ami,  I  write  to  you  this  morning,  because  I  fear  I 
cannot  do  so  this  evening.  Yesterday  I  had  a  strong  fever, 
and  last  night  at  two  o'clock  I  thought  I  was  dying  from  a 
fit  of  coughing,  followed  by  suffocation,  which  really  brought 
me  very  near  to  death.  The  terror  of  my  maid  made  me 
think  there  must  be  something  formidable  in  death  ;  her  face 
was  quite  convulsed,  and  when  I  was  able  to  speak  and  ask 
her  the  cause  of  her  troubled  look  she  said,  "  I  thought  you 
were  going  to  die,"  for  she  had  had  the  courage  to  stay  and 


1775]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  265 

see  me  suffer.  I  am  still  in  bed,  though  nothing  remains  but 
a  slight  oppression,  and  my  usual  ailments. 

Have  you  gone  or  are  you  going  to  Montigny  ?  Did  not 
Mme.  de  Bouiflers  give  you  a  rendezvous  ?  She  started  this 
morning  with  the  Abbd  Morellet  and  returns  Thursday. 
The  Archbishop  of  Toulouse  is  expected  this  evening.  A 
person  who  knows  Mme.  de  Boufflers  very  well  said  to  me 
yesterday :  "  She  makes  herself  the  victim  of  a  desire  for 
consideration,  and  by  dint  of  running  after  it  she  loses  it.  I 
will  wager,"  he  continued,  "  that  she  will  do  the  impossible 
to  be  admitted,  not  to  the  dinner  of  kings,  like  Candide 
in  Venice,  but  to  the  dinner  of  the  ministers  at  Montigny." 
He  said  that  as  a  mere  conjecture,  but  this  morning  I  have 
received  from  him  these  two  lines  :  "  Will  you  believe  now 
in  my  knowledge  of  character  ?  You  laughed  at  me  yester- 
day ;  well,  she  started  this  morning  and  means  to  tumble  into 
the  midst  of  people  who  are  scarcely  of  her  acquaintance." 

Vanity  of  vanities !  Mon  ami,  if  she  has  gone  to  meet 
you  she  has  done  well!  she  ought  to  cherish  the  man  to 
whom  she  once  resolved  to  speak  with  truth.  It  must  be  a 
great  relief  to  her  to  quit  the  mask  occasionally.  How  can 
people  live  in  such  perpetual  restraint  ?  Is  vanity  that 
which  has  most  power  in  nature  ?  Tell  me  who  you  think 
will  be  minister  of  war.  They  say  it  will  be  the  Baron  de 
Breteuil,  who  has  hitherto  spent  his  life  in  the  Foreign 
Affairs.     This  is  like  Maitre  Jacques  in  the  "  Avare." 

Have  you  been  reading  much  in  order  to  begin  your  great 
work  ?  You  have  had  but  eight  days,  but  you  do  things  so 
fast  that  eight  days  will  perhaps  suffice  you  to  do  what 
others  could  not  do  in  eight  months.  Have  you  seen  M. 
Turgot  ?  This  is  the  moment  when  what  you  have  done  for 
him  ought  to  be  of  great  use.  You  will  see  him  at  Mon- 
tigny.    I  wish  you  could  talk  with  him ;  you  would  then  see 


266  LETTERS  OF  [1775 

how  superior  he  is  to  those  who  judge  him  with  prejudice 
and  passion. 

It  is  only  a  few  days  since  you  wrote  me,  no  doubt  to  lift 
me  to  the  skies  :  "  It  is  from  here  that  I  tell  you  that  I  love 
you,  here,  where  I  am  loved,  where  I  am  occupied,  tranquil, 
etc."  Eh !  moil  ami,  it  is  easy  enough  to  be  loved  when 
a  man  is  young,  with  a  charming  face  and  the  manners 
and  attentions  of  one  who  seeks  to  please;  and  especially 
when  all  the  actions  of  his  life  show  that  he  does  not  hold 
strongly  to  anything.  How  should  you  not  be  loved  ?  fools 
and  dandies  are  loved !  M.  de  B  .  .  .  is  adored  by  his  wife, 
who  is  young,  pretty,  and  agreeable;  the  wonder  to  me  is 
that  his  head  is  not  turned  by  it ;  he  does  not  feel,  as  Comte 
de  C  .  .  .  does,  that  he  was  chosen  ;  he  remembers  that  it 
was  an  income  of  twenty-five  thousand  livres  that  made  the 
marriage. 

But  do  you  know  what  would  be  really  piquant,  rare, 
extraordinary,  and  half  a  wonder  (though  there  are  examples 
of  it,  such  as  Diane  de  Poitiers,  Mme.  de  Maintenon,  Mile. 
Clairon)  ?  It  is  to  be  able  to  say  :  "  I  am  loved  "  when  old, 
ugly,  sad,  ill  and  sunk  in  sorrow,  and  especially  when  to  this 
can  be  added :  "  I  am  loved  by  a  charming  and  honourable 
man,  who  is  at  that  time  of  life  when  men  are  most  fastidious 
and  most  difficult  to  please."  That,  vion  ami,  is  w^orth  say- 
ing because  it  is  marvellous.  But  for  a  man  to  draw  vanity 
from  being  loved  by  a  wife  when  he  is  charming,  and  is  con- 
vinced and  shown  from  mornmg  till  night  and  night  till 
morning  that  he  is  passionately  loved  —  ah !  fie,  that  is  so 
common.  Comte  de  C  .  .  .  says  that  and  enjoys  it;  but 
the  truth  is  I  do  not  think  another  being  would  wish  to  be  a 
third,  or  would  demean  herself  to  accept  the  surplus  of  that 
great  passion. 

Adieu,  mon  ami ;  I  do  not  know  why  I  talk  to  you  of  all 


1775]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  267 

this.  If  I  have  fever  it  does  not  amount  to  delirium  ;  but  I 
find  pleasure  in  talking  with  you,  and  I  tell  you  all  that 
comes  into  my  mind.  Write  me ;  I  need  to  be  consoled  and 
sustained ;  my  soul  and  my  body  are  in  a  deplorable  state: 
Mon  ami,  you  are  fourteen  leagues  away ;  that  is  very  far, 
but  it  would  be  very  near  if  —     But  adieu. 

Thursday  evening,  October  19,  1775. 
Mon  ami,  I  should  be  overwhelmed  by  your  reproaches  if 
my  resolutions  had  not  forestalled  them.  Yesterday  I 
blamed  myself,  I  told  you  there  was  cruelty  and  baseness  ui 
making  you  suffer  for  a  sorrow  without  resource.  One  must 
live  or  die  of  it,  but,  above  all,  in  silence.  You  have  known 
and  felt  unhappiness  and  passion  enough  to  conceive  the 
excesses  to  which  they  both  may  lead.  I  detest  them,  I 
abjure  them,  those  excesses ;  I  would  rather  be  dead  than 
affront  you.  Perhaps  I  foresaw  this  new  misfortune  when  I 
longed  to  qiut  life  and  escape  you.  I  felt  that  after  my 
cruel  loss  my  soul  could  never  recover  itself ;  in  fact  that  I 
ought  nevermore  to  love,  that  I  could  not  love  again.  The 
principle  of  my  life,  the  god  that  sustained  me,  that  inspired 
me,  was  no  more.  I  was  left  alone  in  nature.  Ah !  why  did 
you  come  there  ?  why  did  you  seek  me  ?  At  that  moment  I 
did  not  need  consolation  or  support.  Why  did  you  say  to 
me  words  that  my  soul  was  accustomed  to  hear  with  trans- 
port ?  "Wliy  did  you  take  the  language  of  him  who  had  just 
died  for  me  ?  ^^^ly,  in  short,  did  you  beguile  the  reason  of 
one  already  confused  by  excess  of  sorrow  ?  It  was  for  you 
to  judge,  to  foresee ;  I  could  only  moan  and  die.  You  see 
now  the  horrible  result  of  that  thoughtlessness  on  your 
part.  No  doubt  at  that  moment  you  could  not  foresee 
the  sort  of  poison  you  were  pouring  into  my  soul ;  but 
you  knew  even  then  that  you  did  not  love  me  enough  to 


268  LETTERS  OF  [1775 

make  tlie  consolation  and  peace  of  my  life  your  first 
interest. 

Ah !  tliere  is  the  source  and  the  cause  of  all  I  suffer.  My 
soul  in  becoming  culpable  has  lost  its  energy.  1  loved  you  : 
and  from  that  moment  I  became  incapable  of  what  is  noble 
and  what  is  strong.  I  judge  my  conduct,  mon  ami ;  I  blame 
it  more  than  you !  When  you  pronounced  my  sentence,  I 
ouglit  to  have  borne  it,  I  ought  to  have  torn  myself  from  you, 
or  from  life ;  there  is  baseness  in  seeking  to  be  ]>itied  and 
comforted  by  him  who  strikes  us ;  and  that  is  so  true  that  I 
undergo,  ceaselessly,  an  awful  cc^mbat;  my  soul  revolts 
against  your  action,  my  heart  is  filled  with  tenderness  for 
you.  You  are  lovable  enough  to  justify  that  feeling ;  but  you 
have  so  mortally  affronted  me  that  I  must  feel  humiliated. 
Mon  ami,  I  have  told  you,  often,  that  my  situation  is  now 
impossible  to  endure ;  a  catastrophe  must  come ;  I  know  not 
if  it  be  nature  or  passion  that  will  bring  it  about.  Let  us 
•wait,  and,  above  all,  let  us  be  silent.  You  have  enough  kind- 
ness, enough  delicacy  to  spare  my  feelings,  and  yet  you 
believe  me,  me,  sufficiently  cruel  to  wish  to  harass  and  alarm 
yom'S  !  Ah  !  mon  ami,  if  sorrow  sometimes  makes  us  selfish 
it  also  makes  us  very  delicate  ;  the  sorrowful  have  usually  a 
tender  touch ;  they  fear  to  wound ;  they  are  warned  by  their 
own  pain.  Yet  you  believe  that  now,  when  there  barely 
remains  to  me  the  strength  to  moan,  I  seek,  I  select  the 
expressions  that  will  hurt  you  most !  You  do  not  know  me ; 
if  I  could  be  deliberate  with  you,  if  I  were  not  moved  by 
impulse,  no  doubt  I  could  take  more  pains  to  avoid  wound- 
ing you ;  but  remember  that  —  I  love  you. 

That  is  my  crime  towards  you.  Ah  !  7non  ami,  lay  your 
hand  upon  your  conscience,  and  I  am  very  sure  that,  without 
a  great  effort  of  generosity,  you  will  pardon  me.  But,  and 
this  I  swear,  I  shall  no  longer  need   yom-  wtue;    I  will 


1775]  MLLE.  DE  LESPINASSE.  269 

lift  my  soul  to   the   point   of  not  requiring   your  pardon. 
Adieu. 

Friday,  midday,  October  20,  1775. 
I  hasten  to  write  as  if  you  could  read  me  the  sooner. 
Mon  ami,  you  are  crazy !  You  intend  to  say  harm  of  M. 
Turgot  to  M.  de  Vaines !  and  for  me !  it  is  in  my  interest 
that  you  make  this  blunder !  Oh !  what  a  bad  head  you 
have,  but  what  kindness  !  how  amiable  you  are !  You  are 
mistaken  if  you  think  that  poverty,  or  the  comforts  that 
come  from  money  can  do  aught  for  my  happiness,  or  increase 
my  unhappiness.  It  is  not  M.  Turgot,  nor  ]\r.  de  Vaines,  nor  the 
king,  nor  any  power  on  earth  who  can  calm  my  soul,  or  drive 
away  one  heart-rending  memory,. or  put  balm  into  my  blood. 
Alas  !  to  do  that  needs  that  you  should  love  me  :  but  it  is  easier 
to  you  to  solicit  a  minister,  and  hate  him  because  he  has  the 
honesty  not  to  think  of  my  fortunes.  "  It  is  not  gold,  my 
friend,  nor  grandeurs  that  make  us  happy."  [La  Fontaine.] 
That  is  more  true  for  certain  souls  than  I  can  express.  I 
have  never  known  compensation  for  what  I  have  desired : 
passion  is  absolute ;  tastes  yield  to  circumstances.  I  have 
never  desired  or  loved  but  in  one  way ;  in  that  I  have  been 
more  consistent  than  belongs  to  my  sick  brain ;  I  have  never 
repented  for  my  manner  of  acting  on  the  various  occasions 
which  I  have*  had  to  enrich  myself  and  increase,  or  to  speak 
more  coiTectly,  to  acquire  consideration  —  that,  at  least, 
which  fools  distribute,  and  on  which  empty  brains  and 
souls  are  fed.  Good-bye,  mon  ami.  I  am  expecting  the 
A^icomte  de  Saint-Chamans.  I  will  continue  after  the  ar- 
rival of  the  post ;  I  hope,  yes  I  believe,  that  I  shall  have 
a  letter  from  you.  After  seeing  indifferent  people  all 
day  long,  ymi  will  have  gone  home  at  night  and  said 
to  yourself,  "  I  will  do  something  to  give  pleasure  to  one 
who  loves  me." 


270  LETTERS   OF  [1775 

Four  o'clock,  after  the  post. 

No  letter  from  you !  Would  you  know  how  just  I  am  ? 
I  hated  my  other  letters.  What  does  all  else  matter  when 
soul  and  thought  are  lixed  on  a  single  point  ?  I  can  fully 
conceive  how  Newton  spent  thirty  consecutive  years  on  one 
thing,  and  the  object  which  he  had  before  him  was  not  worth 
mine.  Mon  ami,  to  love  is  the  highest  good.  To  be  loved 
by  one  whom  we  love  is  being  too  happy.  There  was  a  time 
in  my  life  —  but  my  God  !  how  have  I  fallen  ! 

No  letter  from  you ;  it  is  my  fault ;  my  letter  through  M. 
de  Vaines  was  sent  too  late.  I  wished  to  follow  you  wher- 
ever you  went,  but  you  did  not  take  pains  to  inform  me. 
Mon  ami,  I  have  read  and  re-read  your  letter  of  yesterday 
three  times  running.  What  you  say  on  the  difference  be- 
tween intellect  and  genius  is  excellent  and  of  great  elo- 
quence ;  your  comparison  is  genius.  But  I  do  not  think 
with  you  that  to  govern  well  requires  men  of  passion.  It 
requires  character  and  not  passion ;  intellect  suffices,  and  it 
is  preferable  in  a  monarchy,  where  uniform  progress  is  neces- 
sary, where  welfare  should  be  preferred  to  glory.  It  is 
because  I  believe  that  neither  passion  nor  genius  is  desirable 
in  a  French  minister  that  I  think  there  is  no  man  better 
able  to  govern  us  than  L.  de  T  .  .  .  [Lom^nie  de  Brienne, 
Archbishop  of  Toulouse].  I  answer  for  it  that  no  soul  is 
more  inaccessible  to  passions.  Nor  is  it  for  energy  alone 
that  we  should  praise  him.  He  has  character,  many  ideas, 
great  activity,  and  a  facility,  an  amenity  which  smooths  away 
all  difficulties. 

Tliis  is  what  I  reply  to  what  you  say  to  me  of  M.  Turgot: 
he  is  like  Lycurgus,  and  L.  de  T  .  .  .  is  more  like  Cardinal 
de  Kichelieu,  or  rather  Colbert,  for  he  would  not  have  the 
force  nor  the  atrocity  of  the  cardinal. 

Mon  ami,  you  will  receive  this  letter  Saturday  morning; 


1775]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  271 

no  doubt  it  will  be  the  last,  for  I  feel  sure  that  you  will 
start  Sunday.  Here  are  my  orders ;  make  a  packet  of  my 
letters,  put  my  address  upon  them,  and  give  them  with  your 
own  hand  to  M.  de  Vaines,  who  will  countersign  [frank] 
for  the  post  that  precious  deposit.  I  wish  to  know  the  hour 
at  which  you  leave  Fontainebleau.  Yes,  I  have  an  interest 
in  knowing;  in  what  do  we  not  have  interest  concerning 
those  we  love  ?  I  told  you  that  I  would  complain  no  more, 
and  burden  you  no  longer  with  the  weight  of  my  woes.  But 
remember  that  I  cannot  pledge  myself  to  have  a  jjerfect, 
equable  conduct.  That  may  come,  perhaps ;  indifference 
may  not  always  be  impossible  to  my  heart.  1  say,  therefore, 
that  I  will  no  longer  make  you  suffer  from  my  suffering ;  but 
understand  that  I  shall  be  neither  courageous  enough  nor 
reasonable  enough  to  pretend  not  to  suffer  when  I  feel  my- 
self torn  with  anguish. 

Adieu,  mon  ami  ;  I  seem  to  be  parting  from  you  for  a  very 
long  time,  and  this  separation  tries  me  more  than  when  you 
are  here  and  can  say  adieu ;  then  there  is  but  that  instant 
of  life  for  me,  I  live  with  all  my  force  in  that  one  moment ; 
but  to-day  it  is  not  so ;  I  am  sad,  depressed,  I  am  deprived 
of  you,  of  your  letter,  I  see  to-morrow,  and  after  !  Ah  !  the 
future  is  very  long.     Adieu. 

Tuesday  evening,  October  24,  1775. 
The  oracles  ceased  because  they  feared  the  echoes.  My 
last  letter  was  written  Wednesday  after  dinner;  I  judged 
you  would  start  Sunday  or  Monday ;  I  now  imagine  that  you 
will  wait  the  aiTival  of  the  Comte  de  Saint-Germain  [just 
appointed  minister  of  war],  who  is  expected  Wednesday  or 
Thursday.  He  is  a  man  of  merit,  a  man  by  himself;  he 
has  reached  his  position  without  intriguing ;  if  he  makes 
reforms  and  changes  we  may  be  sure  that  they  are  for  the 


272  LETTERS   OF  [1775 

c:juntry's  good.  He  will  have  the  confidence  of  the  military 
because  he  is  known  to  be  well-trained  and  to  have  had  a 
wide  experience.  No  one  can  make  better  use  of  your 
talents ;  he  will  give  you  active  service.  You  ought  to  think 
of  yourself.  Did  you  not  tell  me  that  he  already  felt  a  great 
interest  in  you  ?     You  must  not  turn  your  back  to  fortune. 

I  received  your  letters  of  Friday  and  Sunday ;  they  are 
short,  they  are  rare  —  But,  mon  ami,  I  do  not  complain ; 
you  have  so  many  diverse  interests !  and  they  give  you  so 
many  cares  that  I  cannot  see  how  you  will  suffice  for  all. 
Do  not  repeat  to  me  more  than  is  necessary  that  I  must 
"  try "  to  accept  your  situation.  Mon  ami,  those  words 
/  must  try,  when  feelings  or  patience  are  concerned,  are 
meaningless  and  mere  absurdities ;  it  is  concerning  be- 
haviour, business,  matters  of  interest,  that  one  should  try, 
because  all  actions,  all  proceedings  are  then  directed,  or 
should  be  directed,  by  reflection ;  and  it  is  silly  and  thought- 
less to  put  ourselves  in  contradiction  to  its  dictates  and 
interests.  But  as  for  me,  I  will  "  try,"  I  will  make  an 
eftbrt,  and  why  ?  what  do  I  propose  to  myself  ?  what  do  I 
wish  ?  —  No,  no,  mon  ami,  I  have  missed  the  object  of  my 
life ;  life  has  no  longer  any  interest  for  me.  I  shall  keep 
silence  no  doubt,  but  it  will  not  be  by  "  trying,"  it  will  be 
from  weighing,  estimating,  judging  all  things,  and  above  all, 
from  seeing  the  end  so  near ;  I  will  calm  myself,  if  pos- 
sible, during  these  last  days  of  suffering.  We  can  bear  all 
at  the  end  of  a  journey ;  I  desire  not  to  cost  you  a  regret. 
I  have  no  need  of  tears  after  death.  I  ask  you  only  the 
indulgence  and  kindness  shown  to  the  sick  and  the  unfortu- 
nate. Adieu,  mon  ami;  I  passed  a  cruel  night,  coughing 
frightfully.  I  have  a  little  fever  this  evening,  but  I  must 
write  a  line  to  ]M.  de  Vaines.  I  shall  send  this  letter  through 
him. 


1775]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  273 

Thursda}',  midnight,  October  26,  1775. 

You  are  very  lucky  if  you  can  breathe  at  ease ;  as  for  me 
it  is  impossible,  and  I  cannot  express  what  suffering  it  is  — 
but  it  is  of  you  I  wish  to  speak,  mou  ami. 

I  think  you  will  do  wrong  to  give  up  M.  de  Saint-Germain 
at  once.  In  the  present  hurh-burly  he  can  see  nothing ; 
nothing  will  leave  a  trace  upon  him  ;  whereas  if  you  were 
here  after  the  first  moments  are  over  he  would  draw  you 
nearer  to  him ;  you  could  be  useful  to  him  in  many  ways. 
That  man  falls  from  the  clouds ;  he  will  have  a  thousand 
questions  to  ask,  and  he  has  enough  experience  not  to  ask 
them  at  random.  He  has  known  you  so  long;  you  have 
been  "  his  son ; "  he  will  not  fear  committing  himself  to  a 
young  man  he  loves.  I  may  be  mistaken,  but  I  regard  these 
first  moments  as  all-important  for  you.  Look  at  the  matter, 
mon  ami;  put  no  false  generosity,  no  levity  into  your  con- 
duct. I  tell  you  what  I  see.  I  know  well  that  there  is  a 
degree  of  interest  that  affects  tlie  sight ;  but  you  are  nearer 
to  yourself  than  even  I  am ;  therefore  distrust  yourself. 

You  tell  me  nothing  of  your  affairs ;  what  does  that 
show  ?  Are  they  ended  as  you  wish,  or  have  you  put  as 
much  negligence  into  them  as  Mar^chal  de  Duras  puts 
levity  ?  Oh  !  what  excellent  negotiations  !  —  M.  de  Vaines 
praises  you  to  me,  and  in  the  best  manner;  it  is  his  soul 
that  lauds  you.  I  tell  you  this  to  prove  to  you  that  you  did 
not  wound  liim  that  day  you  spoke  to  him  of  me  ;  but  I 
will  wound  you  seriously  if  you  ever  return  to  the  charge. 
Mon  ami,  the  first  rule  in  friendship  is  to  serve  our  friends 
in  the  way  they  wish,  be  it  the  most  fantastic  way  in  the 
world ;  we  should  have  the  delicacy  to  bend  to  their  will 
in  all  that  is  directly  personal  to  themselves.  That  prin- 
ciple laid  down,  my  manner,  my  mania  if  you  will,  is  to 
be  served  by  no  one ;  I  value  intentions  as  others  value 

18 


274  LETTERS   OF  [1775 

actions.  Therefore  do  not  employ  your  energy  on  me,  turn 
it  to  other  objects ;  for  I  repeat,  you  will  offend  me  if  ever 
you  concern  yourself  with  my  interests  again.  Reflect  that 
if  I  had  so  chosen  I  should  not  have  remained  jjoor;  there- 
fore poverty  cannot  he  the  greatest  evil  to  me.  Mon  ami, 
believe  me ;  I  always  speak  the  truth,  and  I  know  very  well 
what  I  want. 

You  have  not  told  me  about  the  theatres,  nor  a  word  of 
what  you  are  doing :  you  feel  no  need  of  conversing ;  your 
only  need  is  to  rush  everywhere  and  see  everything.  I  wish 
God  could  give  you  his  gift  of  omnipresence.  As  for  me,  I 
should  be  in  despair  if  I  had  that  talent ;  I  am  far  from 
wishing  to  be  everywhere,  for  I  long  to  be  nowhere.  Ah  ! 
mon  Dieu!  I  wish  I  had  Mme.  de  Muy's  illusion;  I  think 
that  could  give  me  happiness ;  she  is  sure  that  she  will  see 
M.  de  Muy  again  ;  what  a  support  to  a  desolate  heart !  Four 
years  ago,  just  at  this  season,  I  was  receiving  two  letters  a 
day  from  Fontainebleau.  His  absence  was  for  ten  days ; 
I  had  twenty-two  letters  ;  in  the  midst  of  the  Court  dissipa- 
tions, he,  being  the  object  in  vogue,  the  centre  of  fascination 
to  the  handsomest  women,  he  had  but  one  purpose,  one 
pleasure :  he  desired  to  live  in  my  thoughts ;  he  wished  to 
fill  my  life  ;  and  I  remember  that  during  those  ten  days  I 
went  out  but  once  :  I  expected  a  letter,  and  I  wrote  one !  — 
•  Ah !  those  memories  kill  me  !  and  yet  I  would  fain  live  that 
life  again,  and  under  conditions  more  cruel  still.  Mon  ami, 
if  you  see  the  depths  of  my  soul,  you  must  pity  me  !  But 
do  not  tell  me  so ;  it  is  courage  that  I  need  —  oh,  yes !  I 
need  it ;  I  suffer  cruelly. 

Tell  me  if  you  have  news  regularly  fr«m  Mme.  de  .  .  . 
Have  you  done  anything  for  that  affair  that  interests  her  ? 
You  tell  me  nothing ;  but  you  are  so  hurried !  Do  you 
intend  to  postpone   your  work   on  M.    Dumesnil-Dm'and's 


1775]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  275 

book  ?  M.  de  Saint-Germain  may  answer  it  perhaps  in  f om- 
lines ;  that  would  spare  you  much  trouble,  but  it  is  not  the 
way  to  add  to  your  reputation,  and  I  should  regret  it  for  you. 

The  chevalier  is  about  to  have  a  play  he  has  just  written 
acted ;  he  has  shown  it  to  no  one  ;  that  method  served  him  for 
"  Agathe  "  and  I  hope  it  will  answer  in  this  instance.  They 
make  and  play  comedies  themselves  [this  plural  refers  to 
Mme.  de  Gl^on,  who  is  understood  in  speaking  of  the 
Chevalier  de  Chastellux]  ;  they  have  constant  scenes  with 
each  other  of  a  tearful  character ;  they  torment  each  other 
from  morning  till  night :  it  is  self-love  on  one  side,  complain- 
ing; and  on  the  other  frantic  vanity.  I  am  sorely  afraid 
that  with  the  talents  they  both  have  for  comedy,  and  even  for 
tragedy,  they  may  bring  about  a  final  scene  in  a  play  which 
ought  to  end  without  notoriety.  Ah !  how  unhappy  every- 
body is  ! 

You  see  very  well  that  I  cannot  write  to  you  until  your 
departure,  for  I  do  not  know  when  that  will  be,  and  I  do  not 
want  a  letter  to  be  left  there  after  you  are  gone.  Adieu ;  I 
love  you  wherever  I  am,  but  not  wherever  you  are.  What  is 
to  be  the  "  tinal  scene  "  for  us  ? 

Wednesday,  November  8,  1775. 

My  letters  miss  you,  and  my  presence  is  not  necessary  to 
you.  You  have  spent  five  days  in  Paris  reproaching  me,  and 
yourself  too,  every  moment  that  you  were  here.  You  were 
two  weeks  at  Fontainebleau ;  and  there  was  not  a  single 
day  when  you  could  not  have  found  opportunity  to  come  and 
return.  You  knew  that  I  was  ill ;  you  knew  your  share  in 
my  illness,  and  you  wrote,  as  if  to  crown  me  with  joy  and 
gratitude,  that  if  you  "  could  come  to  Paris  I  should  be  the 
sole  object  of  your  journey."  You  did  not  take  that  journey, 
and  now  you  dare  to  say  that  it  was  because  I  have  gi'own 
so  hard   to   satisfy    and   so   unjust.     Oh !   how  you   weigh 


276  LETTERS   OF  [1775 

upon  my  heart  when  you  try  to  prove  to  me  that  it  ought  to 
be  content  with  yours  !  I  will  never  complain,  but  you 
force  me  to  cry  out,  so  sharp  and  deep  is  the  hurt  you  give 
me.  Mon  ami,  I  have  been  loved,  I  am  loved  still,  and  I  die 
from  regret  that  it  is  not  by  you.  —  But  are  we  ever  loved 
by  what  we  love  ?  do  justice  and  reflection  ever  enter  into 
a  sentiment  so  involuntary  and  so  arbitrary  ? 

I  have  languished  since  your  departure ;  I  have  not  had 
an  hour  without  suffering ;  the  ills  of  my  soul  have  passed 
to  my  body ;  I  have  fever  daily,  and  my  physician,  who  is 
not  the  most  skilful  of  men,  repeats  to  me  perpetually  that 
I  am  consumed  by  grief,  that  my  pulse  and  my  respiration 
show  an  active  evil,  and  then  he  departs  saying,  "  We  have 
no  remedies  for  the  soul."  There  are  none  for  me ;  it 
is  not  to  be  cured  that  I  desire,  but  to  be  calmed,  to  recover 
some  moments  of  repose  which  will  lead  me  to  that  which 
nature  will  soon  grant  me.  That  one  thought  is  all  which 
rests  me ;  I  have  no  longer  strength  to  love ;  my  soul  wearies 
me,  tortures  me  ;  nothing  sustains  me  now ;  desire  and  hope 
are  dead  within  me  ;  the  weaker  I  grow,  the  more  obsessed 
I  am  by  one  sole  thought.  No  doubt  I  do  not  love  you 
better  than  I  have  loved  you,  but  I  can  love  nothing  else; 
the  ills  of  the  body  bring  me  forever  back  to  my  one  point. 
There  is  no  escape,  no  diversion ;  the  long  nights,  the  loss  of 
sleep  have  made  my  love  a  sort  of  madness ;  it  has  become  a 
fixed  idea,  and  I  know  not  how  I  have  escaped  a  score  of 
times  from  uttering  wot-ds  that  would  have  told  the  secret  of 
my  life  and  of  my  heart.  Sometimes,  in  society,  tears  over- 
take me,  and  I  am  forced  to  fly. 

Alas !  —  in  picturing  this  madness  I  do  not  seek  to  touch 
you,  for  I  believe  that  you  will  never  read  these  words.  Be- 
sides, in  the  state  in  which  I  am  what  have  I  to  claim,  or  to 
fear,  from  you  ?     It  suffices  me  to  think  you  honest,  and  to 


1775]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  277 

be  very  sure  of  all  your  actions  to  the  end.  There  are  situa- 
tions which  compel  even  the  hardest  and  most  insensible  of 
souls :  all  who  surround  me  seem  more  eager  for  me ;  seeing 
the  eternal  separation  so  near,  they  gather  to  me.  I  cannot 
praise  enough  the  attentions  and  interest  of  my  friends ;  they 
do  not  console  me,  but  it  is  certain  that  they  put  a  sweetness 
into  my  life.  I  love  them,  and  I  would  I  loved  them  more. 
Adieu.  I  succumb  to  all  these  painful  thoughts;  but  stiU, 
in  pouring  out  my  soul  I  comfort  it  a  little. 

Thursday,  eleven  at  night,  November  19,  1775. 
.  Mon  ami,  I  wrote  you  four  pages  yesterday;  but  never 
can  I  "end  my  day  without  saying  the  words,  "  I  love  you."  I 
have  just  seen  the  person  in  the  world  by  whom  I  am  most 
beloved,  and  that  has  made  me  feel,  more  and  more,  the 
point  to  which  I  love  you.  Had  I  heard  you  annoimced 
unexpectedly,  after  three  months'  absence,  how  I  shoidd  have 
quivered  from  head  to  foot !  how  I  should  not  have  known  a 
word  I  said,  or  what  was  said  to  me !  Mon  ami,  one  must 
love  to  know  all  that  Nature  has  granted  of  good  and  of 
pleasure  to  man.  It  is  sweet  no  doubt  to  be  loved ;  but 
where  is  the  happiness  ?  for  to  judge,  to  appreciate  the  affec- 
tion of  an  excellent  man,  to  respond  with  kindness  to  his 
involuntary  emotions,  to  see  alternately  sadness  and  vexa- 
tion on  the  face  of  one  all  filled  with  a  desire  for  our 
happiness  —  oh  !  if  that  flatters  the  vanity  of  silly  women,  it 
afflicts  an  honourable  and  sensitive  soul. 

Mon  ami,  do  you  suffer  at  not  hearing  from  me  ?  has  it 
made  a  void  in  your  life  ?  Are  you  so  occupied,  so  intoxi- 
cated that  you  do  not  feel  in  turn  an  active  need  and  a  gi'eat 
languor  ?  Am  I  very  near  to  your  thought  when  I  am  near 
you  in  person  ?  Ah !  mon  ami,  these  questions  picture  to 
you  a  very  feeble  part  of  what  I  feel  \  I  die  of  sadness.     My 


278  LETTERS   OF  [1775 

friends  thiuk  me  affected  by  my  sorrows.  I  felt  this  evening 
the  kindness  of  M.  d'Anlezy  and  M.  de  Schomberg;  they 
reassured  me  as  to  my  Imigs ;  my  cough  distressed  them,  but 
they  consoled  me.  Excellent  men !  they  did  not  know  all  I 
suffer.  But  I  do  not  deserve  to  be  pitied,  even  by  you :  for 
see  the  excess  of  my  madness  ;  I  feel  that  I  love  you  beyond 
the  forces  of  my  soul  and  body ;  I  feel  that  1  am  dying  be- 
cause I  have  no  communication  with  you ;  that  privation  is 
the  most  cruel  of  all  punishments  to  me.  I  count  the  days, 
the  hours,  the  minutes ;  my  head  wanders ;  I  W9,nt  the  im- 
possible ;  I  want  news  of  you  on  the  days  when  there  is  no 
courier  —  in  short,  what  shall  I  say  ?  I  love  you  to  madness. 
After  that,  comprehend  me  if  you  can.  —  I  do  not  send  you 
my  letters ;  I  should  shock  you,  I  should  irritate  you,  if  only 
by  contradiction ;  more  than  that,  if  by  some  chance  you 
were  forced  to  stay  in  the  place  where  you  now  are,  six 
months,  a  year,  or  all  your  days,  I  think  I  can  answer  for 
it  that  you  woidd  never  hear  again  from  me  !  Conceive  from 
this  the  horror  that  accursed  letter  caused  me,  dated  from  that 
place  which  paints  itself  to  me  in  a  manner  more  horrible 
than  hell  was  ever  painted  to  Saint  Theresa  and  the  most 
frenzied  brains.  No  argument  on  earth  could  overcome  so 
fatal  an  impression ;  I  shudder  still,  remembering  that  date 
and  the  few  short  lines  that  followed  it.  Oh,  heaven !  what 
had  you  become  ?  had  you  absolutely  ceased  to  be  conscious 
of  my  woe  ?     Adieu ;  that  thought  blights  my  heart. 

After  the  post  hour,  November  10,  1775. 
No,  the  effects  of  passion,  or  of  reason  (for  I  know  not  which 
inspires  me  at  this  moment)  are  inconceivable.  After  await- 
ing the  postman  with  the  need,  the  agitation  that  makes 
waiting  the  greatest  torture,  I  was  ill  of  it  physically ;  my 
cough  and  the  spasms  in  my  head  lasted  five  or  six  hours. 


1775]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  279 

Well !  after  that  violent  state,  which  is  not  susceptible  of 
either  distraction  or  relief,  the  postman  came ;  I  had  letters, 
there  were  none  from  you.  A  \dolent  internal  and  external 
convulsion  seized  me,  and  then,  I  know  not  what  happened 
to  me,  but  I  felt  calmed ;  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  felt  a  sort 
of  comfort  in  finding  you  more  indifferent  and  colder  than 
you  have  ever  thought  me  passionate.  By  proving  that  I  am 
nothing  to  you  I  believe  you  make  it  easier  for  me  to  detach 
myself  from  you.  It  is  so  proved  to  me  that  you  can  only 
make  the  misery  of  all  the  moments  of  my  life  that  what- 
ever gives  me  strength  to  separate  myself  and  keep  apart 
from  you  has  become  the  greatest  comfort  I  can  feel.  And 
here  I  am,  wishing  that  you  may  be  kept,  by  inclination  or 
by  force,  in  the  place  where  you  now  are ;  }'our  absence 
ceases  to  be  an  ill  to  me ;  it  is  repose.     Adieu. 

Monday,  November  13,  1776. 
Mon  ami,  how  amiable  you  are  and  how  you  justify  the 
excess  of  my  passion  and  my  unhappiness.  Yes,  I  believe 
that  what  I  have  suffered,  what  I  await,  nothing  could  have 
had  the  power  to  prevent  me,  to  protect  me,  from  loving  you. 
There  are  things  that  make  me  believe  in  fatality :  I  was  to 
live  to  see  you  again,  and  then  die  of  it.  But,  /  have  loved 
yon  ;  I  complain  no  more.  Leave  me  to  bear  my  fate;  and 
keep  3'ourself  from  crowning  all  my  sorrows  by  making  me 
love  life  at  the  moment  I  must  quit  it,  or  rather  when  I  feel 
it  escaping  me.  Alas !  mon  ami,  in  pity,  in  kindness,  let 
me  think  that  death  will  deliver  me  from  a  burden  that  over- 
whelms me.  Let  me  pause  and  rest  my  thought  on  that 
long  desired,  long  expected  moment  which  I  feel  with  a  sort 
of  transport  is  now  approaching  me.  But  yesterday,  when  I 
saw  you,  when  I  listened  to  you,  I  thought  with  tender 
emotion  that  soon  I  must  bid  you  adieu  forever.     I  felt  my 


280  Liyn'EKS  of  [1775 

pulse,  as  it  were;  1  tried  to  think  that  1  was  not  so  ill;  I 
regretted  to  feel  there  was  no  hope.  My  tenderness  for  you 
so  filled  my  soul  that  it  would  not  allow  me  to  have  a  wish 
that  liad  for  its  object  to  part  from  you.  Oh !  under  that 
dreadful  aspect  death  is  indeed  an  evil,  a  great  evil. 

Mon  Dieu  !  you  will  never  know  the  heart-rending  an- 
guish, the  species  of  death  and  agony  in  which  I  have  spent 
the  last  three  weeks.  It  is  not  the  loss  of  my  strength,  my 
emaciation,  the  excessive  change  in  me  that  are  surprising. 
What  is  inconceivable  is  that  my  life  has  resisted  this 
agony.  —  But  you  are  here :  I  find  you  again,  so  full  of  kind- 
ness and  sensibility ;  you  have  calmed  my  soul,  you  have  put 
balm  into  my  blood.  It  was  less  painful  to  me  to  suffer  last 
night ;  I  could  not  sleep,  I  had  fever,  I  coughed ;  but  I  was, 
truly,  not  unhappy,  for  my  soul  was  occupied  by  you  in  a 
sweet  and  tender  way.  I  thought  that  I  would  write  to  you, 
and  I  dared  not  hope  for  a  letter,  yet  it  did  ntjt  seem  to  me 
impossible.  Judge,  therefore,  the  feeling  of  happiness  that 
came  over  me  when  on  entering  my  room  they  said  to  me, 
"  From  M.  de  Guibert."  Mon  ami,  those  words  strengthened 
me  for  my  whole  day.  I  do  not  fear  the  fever,  having  your 
letter ;  the  remedy  has  more  power  over  me  than  the  dis- 
ease. —  Only,  I  must  drive  from  my  mind  this  thought  that 
returns  unceasingly :  "  He  arrived  in  Paris  Saturday  at  five 
o'clock,  and  he  waited  till  Sunday  at  one  o'clock  to  know  if 
I  were  dead,  or  ill,  or  sorrowful."  Ah  !  mon  ami,  you  forgot 
that  I  loved  you ;  do  you  no  longer  know  how  I  love  with 
all  the  faculties  of  my  soul,  my  mind,  with  the  air  I  breathe  ? 
/  love  to  live,  and  I  live  to  love. 

I  am  full  of  eagerness  to  know  what  M.  de  Saint-Germain 
has  said  to  you.  I  have  thought  again  over  his  letter;  it  is 
good,  very  good ;  and  I  do  not  doubt  that  you  will  be  satis- 
fied with  the  way  in  which  he  treats  you.     If  I  am  not  to 


1775]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  281 

see  you  to-morrow  (Tuesday)  morning,  write  me  a  line,  for  I 
do  not  think  you  will  come  again  this  evening.  If  you  do 
not  come  in  the  morning  and  cannot  give  me  your  evening, 
I  shall  be  alone  frum  four  to  half-past  five ;  so  there  are 
three  ways  to  see  me. with  freedom.  Take  one  of  them,  mon 
ami,  for  I  have  need  to  see  you.  Good-bye.  You  see  I  am 
giving  myself  compensations.  Good  God!  what  I  suffered 
in  being  forced  to  silence.  Mon  ami,  do  you  believe  that 
there  is  or  could  be  any  one  in  the  world  more  keenly  con- 
scious of  all  your  charm,  more  profoundly  absorbed  in  you 
than  I  ?  Do  you  believe  that  there  is  a  degree  of  tenderness 
and  passion  beyond  that  which  inspires  me  ?  the  beatings  of 
my  heart,  the  throbs  of  my  pulse,  my  breathing,  all  that  is 
the  effect  of  passion.  This  is  more  marked,  more  evident 
than  ever  —  not  that  it  is  stronger;  but  it  gleams  as  it 
vanishes,  like  the  light  that  flashes  up  before  it  is  ex- 
tinguished. 

Midnight,  Saturday,  December  30,  1775. 

Mon  ami,  you  did  not  wait  for  me,  did  you  ?  You  have 
not  had  time  to  think  of  me ;  there  would  therefore  be 
awkwardness  and  folly  in  reproaching  myself  and  in  making 
excuses  to  you. 

But  the  truth  is  that,  with  the  will  and  the  desire  to  write 
to  you,  I  could  not  do  so.  From  four  o'clock  until  this  in- 
stant I  have  not  been  one  minute  alone.  Besides,  what  have 
I  to  say,  mon  ami,  when  you  ask  me  to  tell  you  of  myself  ? 
With  two  words  I  can  always  express  my  physical  and 
moral  condition  :  /  love,  I  suffer ;  and  that  is  the  order  of 
things  for  a  long  time  past.  Yes,  I  have  suffered  much  ;  I 
have  had  fever.  I  have  it  now,  and  I  feel  that  my  night 
will  be  detestable ;  I  am  dying  of  thirst,  and  my  chest  and 
stomach  are  burning ;  this  is  my  bad  night ;  my  day  has  been 
more  tolerable. 


282  LETTERS   OF  [1775 

There  has  been  such  good  company,  such  good  conversa- 
tion in  my  room  that  I  wished  for  you :  as  for  myself,  the 
good,  bad,  and  indifferent  add  nothing  to  the  need  I  always 
have  of  seeing  you  ;  it  is  the  need  of  my  soul,  just  as  the  need 
to  breathe  is  the  want  of  my  lungs.  Mon  Dieu  !  how  I 
wish  I  could  moderate  or  even  extinguish  that  need  !  it  is  too 
active  for  my  feeble  body ;  and  it  has  become  more  necessary 
than  ever  that  I  should  accustom  myself  to  see  you  seldom. 
All  things  separate  us,  mon  ami,  and  all  things  are  drawing 
me  nearer  to  him  who  was  born  three  hundred  leagues  away 
from  me.  Alas  !  he  was  inspired  by  that  which  can  do  the 
impossible.  But  I  do  not  complain ;  you  grant  me  enough ;  we 
are  always  too  rich  when  about  to  move,  or  to  lose  all. 

Well,  mon  ami,  have  you  carried  out  your  plans  ?  have 
you  worked  hard  ?  I  do  not  believe  it.  This  is  what  you 
have  done  :  dinner ;  after  dinner,  talk  ;  at  five  o'clock  went  to 
the  Temple  [the  house  of  the  Prince  de  Conti,  grand  prior 
of  France] ,  where  you  read  the  changes  in  the  "  Conndtable." 
Of  course  they  praised  it  to  the  skies,  and  with  that  gentle 
eloquence  the  hours  flew  by.  You  came  home  shortly  be- 
fore nine  o'clock ;  it  was  then  very  comfortable  to  vegetate 
in  your  family  and  to  be  adored  till  half-past  eleven  or  mid- 
night. Here  I  employ  the  art  of  the  painter  of  Agamemnon 
and  say  no  more.  Good-night.  I  do  not  know  what  hour 
you  destine  for  me  to-morrow ;  though  you  said  it  was  the 
evening,  so  many  things  pass  through  your  head  that  your 
plans  should  never  be  regarded  as  engagements.  In  short, 
mon  ami,  give  me  what  you  can.  But  do  not  come  at  four 
o'clock :  T  have  told  a  person  to  come  then,  as  I  felt  sure  you 
would  not  choose  that  hour.  I  reproach  myself  for  detain- 
ing you  so  long ;  you  are  as  much  surrounded  as  a  minister. 
I  beg  of  you  to  gather  up  the  letters  that  you  have  of  mine 
and  bring  them  back  to  me. 


1776]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  283 

Eleven  o'clock  at  night,  1776. 

I  have  been  thinking  that  if  you  are  not  happy,  very 
happy,  happiness  cannot  exist,  that  there  is  no  such  thing 
on  earth ;  for  you  are  made  expressly  to  enjoy  much  and 
suffer  little.  Everything  serves  you  for  this,  —  your  defects, 
your  good  qualities,  your  sensibility,  your  levity.  You  have 
tastes  and  no  passions ;  you  have  soul  and  no  character. 
It  seems  to  me  that  Nature  studied  to  make  in  you  the 
most  accurate  combinations  which  could  render  a  man  both 
happy  and  agreeable.  You  will  ask  me  the  occasion  of 
these  remarks.  Ah !  if  you  cannot  find  it  for  yourself,  be- 
lieve that  I  am  rambling  incoherently  —  which  would  be 
quite  true  ninety -nine  times  in  a  hundred.  I  did  not  ex- 
pect you  this  evening,  but  I  tore  myself  away  with  difficulty 
to  go  with  Comte  d'Anl^zy  to  pass  an  hour  with  M.  de  Saint- 
Chamans,  whose  state  again  makes  me  uneasy. 

When  shall  I  see  you  ?  and  how  long  shall  I  see  you  ? 
My  life  is  so  short,  our  ties  are  so  fragile  —  ah  !  Mon  Dieu  ! 
I  thought  them  broken.  There  is  nothing  solid  between  us, 
nothing  well-foimded  but  sorrow ;  you  signed  the  warrant 
by  the  sacrifice  of  yom-  liberty  and  my  peace  for  the  little 
time  I  have  to  live.  Adieu ;  tell  yourself  that,  inasmuch  as 
you  have  condemned  me,  you  owe  me  nothing ;  be  cruel  if 
you  can.  Give  me  the  coup  de  grQce,  that  I  may  bless  and 
treasure  you  still. 

My  letters,  mon  ami. 

I  have  not  received  the  papers  which  Mme.  Geoffrin  is 
awaiting  impatiently  ;  return  them  to  me  at  once.  I  en- 
treat you. 

Five  o'clock  in  the  morning,  1776. 

I  cannot  sleep ;  my  stomach,  my  head,  my  soul,  keep  me 
awake  and  torture  me.  To  charm  away  my  ills  I  want  to 
talk  to  you.     You  see,  man  ami,  that  I  cannot  —  I  cannot. 


284  LETTERS   OF  [1776 

go  to  dine  with  M.  Boutin.  I  sent  you  word  that  I  had 
written  to  excuse  myself ;  and,  in  truth,  it  would  be  beyond 
my  strength.  Excepting  you,  I  could  not  listen  or  speak  to 
any  one.  I  have  been  so  u])set,  1  am  still  in  such  anxiety, 
that  I  can  be  at  ease  with  no  oue  but  that  distressed  family ; 
I  suffer  and  feel  with  them.  Mon  ami,  my  heart  is  full  of 
tears,  and  tliose  I  shed  have  not  only  M.  de  Saint-Chamans 
for  their  object.  Ah !  how  close  you  are  to  all  that  moves 
my  soul !  it  is  you,  always  you,  under  whatever  form  and  in 
whatever  manner  I  express  a  painful  sentiment.  My  regrets, 
my  fears,  my  remorse,  —  all  is  filled  with  you  ;  how  could  it 
not  be  so  ?     I  exist  by  you  and  for  you  only. 

Ah  !  nion  Dieu  !  you  say  that  I  reject  and  repulse  all  that 
you  do  for  me.  Explain,  then,  what  it  is  that  fastens  me, 
that  chains  me  to  this  life  of  sorrow  that  I  ought  to  have 
quitted  when  I  lost  him  who  had  made  me  know  the  value 
of  life  and  made  me  cherish  it.  AVho  held  me  back  ?  who 
holds  me  still  and  rends  my  heart  ?  You  know  as  well  as 
I  do  whether  I  love  you ;  you  know  that  when  I  say  I  hate 
I  only  prove  how  much  I  love  you  ;  my  silence,  my  cold- 
ness, my  unkindness  are  to  you  a  proof  that  no  stronger, 
tenderer  passion  can  exist  in  all  the  world.  My  God !  how 
I  have  fought  it !  how  I  have  abhorred  it !  yet  it  has 
always  been  more  powerful  than  my  reason  or  my  will. 

Mon  ami,  send  an  excuse  at  once  to  M.  Boutin.  Keep 
me  your  good-will  for  to-morrow,  Wednesday,  at  Mme. 
Geoffrin's.  I  hope  I  may  be  able  to  go  if  we  have  news 
to-day.  I  received  your  letter  from  Versailles  on  coming 
home;  it  came  at  midnight.  I  have  not  told  you  rightly 
how  touched  I  am  by  that  compassionate  kindness.  Good- 
morning  —  or  good-night ;  my  night  is  just  beginning.  It  is 
far  sweeter  to  talk  with  you  than  to  sleep ;  but  in  order  to 
love  you,  to  suffer  a  little  longer,  I  must  have  sleep ;  for 


1776]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  285 

to  love,  one  must  live ;  and  it  is  very  certain  that  I  live  but 
to  love  you.  Adieu,  kindest  and  most  cherished  of  all  created 
beings.     That  is  forgiving  —  but  forgetting  !  ah  !  mon  ami. 

Six  o'clock  in  the  morning,  1776. 

I  cannot  say  that  my  first  thought  is  for  you ;  for  I  have 
not  yet  slept :  but  my  thought  is  full  of  you,  and  I  want  to 
tell  you  that  1  love  you,  before  a  few  moments'  sleep  takes 
from  me  the  joy  of  feeling  it.  Mon  ami,  I  came  to  bed 
very  sad ;  I  had  expected  you,  and  that  hope  animated  and 
sustained  my  soul.  When  the  hour  for  hope  had  passed,  ah ! 
I  fell  very  low  ;  for  my  body  is  so  weakened.  Persons  were 
all  around  me,  but  I  could  not  have  been  more  alone  in  a 
desert.  "  Ah  !  mon  Dieu!"  I  said  to  mj-self  as  I  heard  the 
names  announced,  "  all  whom  I  do  not  await,  all  whom  I  do 
not  desire  are  punctual,  assiduous."  It  is  dreadful  to  live 
to  one  point,  to  have  but  one  object,  one  desire,  one  thought. 
Mon  ami,  that  is  certainly  not  a  remedy  for  fever ;  neverthe- 
less, my  fever  has  been  far  less  high  than  it  was  the  previous 
night;  I  had  neither  thirst  nor  heat  nor  a  species  of  delirium. 
Can  you  imagine  that  I  was  unable  to  fix  my  mind  on  you  ? 
my  feeling  for  you  escaped  me  like  all  the  rest ;  and  this 
failure  of  power  over  my  thought  increased  my  agitation. 
At  present  I  am  more  tranquil ;  I  suffer,  but  in  a  way  that 
is  bearable. 

Are  you  in  Paris,  mon  ami  ?  Shall  I  see  you  to-day  ?  I 
wish  you  the  best,  the  highest  fortune ;  still,  it  is  sad  to  be 
attached  to  one  from  whom  all  things  part  us.  If  M.  de 
Saint-Germain  employs  you,  you  will  be  constantly  at  Ver- 
sailles ;  and  then  a  wife,  a  family,  tastes,  dissipations  !  Ah  ! 
mon  ami,  I  complain  of  nothing,  but  tell  me,  in  good 
faith,  could  I  live  in  the  midst  of  all  that  ?  What  you 
could  do  for  me  would  cost  you  much,  and  what  you  could 


286  LETTERS   OP  [1776 

not  do  would  torture  me.  Better  say  and  do  like  the  wife 
of  Paetus  :  "  I  weep  not,  but  I  die."  I  do  not  know  if  this 
is  fever,  but  for  a  long  time  past  my  head  is  exhausted,  and, 
weary  with  weeping,  I  have  no  tears ;  that  relief  is  no 
longer  at  the  call  of  my  sorrow.  —  But,  mun  ami,  it  is  of 
you  I  want  to  speak.  You  must  have  arrived  in  Paris  very 
late ;  for  surely  I  should  have  heard  of  you  to-day  if  you 
arrived  at  five  o'clock.     No  matter  ;  I  love  you. 

Midday,  March,  1776. 

I  do  not  understand  what  this  means.  Apropos  of  my 
landlord  you  say,  "  I  never  knew  any  one  so  difficult."  In 
what  ?  why  ?  I  do  not  understand.  But  inasmuch  as  you 
are  kind  enough  to  make  this  lease  for  me,  I  would  rather 
it  were  not  done  on  a  Friday.  That  day,  that  word  still 
makes  me  tremble  with  horror.  If  it  is  all  the  same  to  you, 
choose  Saturday ;  or  else,  I  will  not  sign  till  Saturday.  For- 
give this  trouble. 

No,  I  do  not  send  for  you  any  longer ;  I  do  not  urge  you 
to  give  me  your  time.  It  seems  to  me  that  it  is  forcing 
nature  to  seek  to  bring  you  nearer.  By  the  nature  of  things, 
by  circumstances,  by  our  tastes,  by  our  ages,  we  are  too 
separated  to  be  able  to  come  nearer  to  each  other  now. 
We  must  therefore  submit  to  that  which  has  more  power 
than  will  or  even  liking,  namely  :  necessity.  You  are  mar- 
ried ;  your  first  duty,  your  chief  care,  and  your  greatest 
pleasures  are  there  ;  follow  that  course  therefore  ;  and  reflect 
that  whatever  you  might  subtract  from  it  could  not  satisfy  a 
sensitive  soul.  The  weakness  and  exhaustion  of  my  whole 
being  make  me  avoid  the  convulsions  of  passion ;  I  want 
repose,  I  want  to  breathe,  I  want  to  try  what  the  truest 
feelings,  the  tenderest  friendship  can  do  for  the  consolation 
of  a  being  sunk  in  sorrow  and  misfortune  for  so  many  years 


1776]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  28? 

Oh !  leave  me ;  give  yourself  up  to  your  tastes,  your  duties, 
your  work ;  surely  that  is  enough  to  fill  your  life. 

No,  do  not  come  this  evening ;  you  have  a  pleasure  and  re- 
laxation beside  you  which  are  much  more  efficacious  than  those 
you  seek  with  me ;  besides,  I  stayed  at  home  last  evening, 
and  I  do  not  wish  to  go  two  days  without  seeing  Mme.  de 
Saint-Chamans,  who  is  ill.  To-moiTOw,  if  you  like,  I  will  see 
you.  I  dine  with  the  Neapolitan  ambassador,  and  shall  not 
go  out  in  the  evening.  To-day  I  dine  with  Mme.  Geoffrin. 
Adieu.  Of  all  whom  I  know,  of  all  whom  1  love,  of  all  who 
love  me,  you  are  the  one  T  see  least.  I  do  not  complain ;  I 
tell  myself  it  could  not  be  otherwise ;  and  I  hasten  to  turn 
away  my  thoughts  from  that  which  I  cannot  change. 

Midnight,  1776. 

Oh  !  you  are  all  ice,  you  happy  people  !  Men  of  the  world, 
your  souls  are  shut  to  keen  and  deep  impressions.  I  am 
ready  to  thank  Heaven  for  the  ills  that  overwhelm  me,  and 
of  which  I  die,  because  they  have  left  me  the  twofold  sensi- 
bility and  the  deep  passion  which  make  me  comprehending 
of  all  that  suffers,  all  that  knows  sorrow,  all  that  is  tortured 
by  the  joy  and  the  misery  of  loving.  Yes,  mon  ami,  you 
are  more  fortunate  than  I,  but  I  have  more  pleasure  than 
you. 

I  have  just  finished  the  first  volume  of  the  "  Paysan  Per- 
verti."  That  final  page  did  not  delight  you !  you  felt  no 
need  to  speak  to  me  about  it,  to  read  it  to  me  !  soul  of  ice  ! 
It  is  happiness,  it  is  heaven's  own  language.  And  Manon's 
death,  and  her  passion,  her  remorse,  and  those  dolorous  and 
passionate  words  that  she  employs  !  All !  we  passed  a  whole 
evening  together,  the  book  was  there,  3'ou  had  read  it,  and 
you  never  said  one  word  of  it  to  me  !  Mon  ami,  there  is  a 
little  corner  of  your  soul,  and  a  large  part  of  your  conduct 


288  LETTERS   OF  [1776 

which  might  cause,  without  injustice  or  folly,  a  comparison 
which  you  would  not  like.  Yes,  there  is  a  little  of  Edmond 
in  your  make-up ;  you  do  not  resemble  him  iii  the  full  face, 
but  a  little  in  profile.  Mon  ami,  this  book,  this  bad  book, 
so  wanting  in  taste,  in  delicacy,  in  good  sense  even,  —  this 
book,  unless  I  am  much  mistaken,  is  made  with  a  portion  of 
the  passion  and  warmth  which  inspired  SaLut-Preux  and 
Julie.  Oh !  there  are  delightful  sayings !  if  Ihey  are  not 
the  last  sparkles  of  thy  genius,  Jean-Jacques,  if  they  are  not 
the  ashes,  half -extinguished,  of  the  passion  that  fired  thy 
soul,  read,  1  conjure  tliee,  this  book,  and  tliy  heart  will  be 
stirred  to  interest  in  its  author,  who  has,  it  is  true,  so  ill- 
conceived  and  ill-arranged  his  work,  but  who  is  certainly 
capable  of  writing  a  better  [R^tif  de  La  Bretonne].  Yes,  I 
punish  yo\x,mon  ami,  I  put  that  task  upon  you  also ;  but  you 
will  get  out  of  it,  as  usual,  by  not  reading  the  book.  That 
is  what  Edmond  woidd  have  done,  and  he  was  less  occupied 
than  you,  Mon  ami,  here  is  the  title,  or  rather  the  headings 
of  a  letter  I  should  have  written  had  I  been  Pierre  the 
editor :  "  Edmond  to  Manon.  How  is  it  possible  to  apply 
the  same  feelings  to  so  many  different  objects  ?  —  The 
world  is  a  dangerous  abode  for  whosoever  has  a  heart 
like  Edmond's." 

You  will  please  return  my  book  and  my  letters.  You  tell 
me  that  you  have  been  more  dissipated  than  occupied  this 
afternoon,  —  opera,  visits,  attentions,  manners,  frivolity  of 
people  in  society,  talent,  genius,  the  necessity  for  winning 
credit !  Oh !  the  amazing  contrast !  and  what  a  dreadful 
misfortune  to  see  so  closely  a  man  even  more  seductive 
than  he  is  lovable.  Mon  ami,  I  cough  enough  to  frighten  all 
around  me,  and  I  can  no  more.  Truly,  you  ought  to  love 
me;  you  have  but  a  moment.     I  feel  that. 

A  box  with  four  places  for  women ;   three  tickets  to  the 


1776]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  289 

parquet;   think  about  it  and  do  not  neglect  an  attention 
which  will  oblige  one  you  love. 

I  shall  not  go  out ;  I  have  fever,  and  my  cough  is  continued. 

Six  in  the  evening,  1776. 

I  would,  mon  ami,  that  during  the  few  days  I  have  to  live, 
you  should  not  pass  a  single  one  without  remembering  that 
you  are  loved  to  madness  by  the  most  unhappy  of  human 
beings.  Yes,  mon  ami,  I  love  you.  I  will  that  that  sad 
truth  pursue  you,  that  it  trouble  your  happiness ;  I  will  that 
the  poison  which  forbids  my  life,  which  consumes  it,  and  will 
no  doubt  end  it,  shall  put  into  your  soul  a  sorrowful  sensi- 
bility which  may  incline  you  to  regret  one  who  loved  you 
with  tenderness  and  passion.  Adieu,  mon  ami,  do  not  love 
me ;  for  that  is  contrary  to  your  duty  and  against  your  will ; 
but  suffer  me  to  love  you,  and  let  me  say  it  and  resay  it  to 
you  a  hundred  times,  a  thousand  times,  but  never  with  ex- 
pressions that  answer  to  what  I  feel. 

Mon  ami,  come  and  dine  to-morrow  with  Mme.  Geoffrin. 
I  have  so  little  time  to  live  that  nothing  you  can  do  for  me 
could  have  consequences  in  the  future.  The  future !  how  I 
pity  those  who  await  it,  if  they  love  you.  Adieu ;  I  have 
company  in  my  room.  Ah,  how  irksome  it  is  to  live  in 
society  when  one  has  but  one  thought. 

Half-past  nine  o'clock,  1776. 

I  know  it  well ;  you  write  me  charming  notes,  but  you 
leave  me  to  die.  I  am  cold,  so  cold  that  my  thermometer  is 
twenty  degrees  lower  than  that  of  Edaumur.  This  concen- 
trated cold,  this  state  of  perpetual  torture,  throw  me  into 
such  deep  discouragement  that  I  have  no  strength  to  desire  a 
better  condition.  In  fact,  what  is  there  to  desne  ?  That 
which  remains  for  me  to  feel  is  worth  no  more  than  what  I 
have  already  felt.     Ah,  yes !  let  me  cease  to  be !     I  do  not 


290  LETTERS   OF  [1776 

repulse  your  pity,  or  your  generosity.  I  should  feel  I  did 
you  harm  in  refusing  them ;  keep  the  illusion  that  you  are 
able  to  comfort  me. 

1776. 

I  am  chilled,  I  tremble,  I  die  of  cold,  I  am  bathed  in 
sweat.  You  revive  that  part  of  me  which  suffers  most ;  my 
heart  is  cold,  and  wrung,  and  agonized ;  I  might  say,  like  that 
mad  soul  in  Bedlam,  "  It  suffers  so  that  it  will  burst." — 
Mon  ami  !  it  seems  to  me  a  century  has  passed  since  yes- 
terday; I  fear  I  may  not  reach  this  evening;  then  I  shall 
see  you,  and  my  pain  will  lessen.  My  God !  I  have  not 
strength  enough  to  bear  my  soul,  it  kills  me.  Good-day,  mon 
ami  ;  I  love  you  better  and  more  than  you  have  ever  loved. 
Yes,  I  suffer,  I  cough,  but  I  shall  see  you.  You  will  be 
active  enough  between  now  and  this  evening ;  and  I,  I  shall 
have  but  one  thought,  making  me  repeat  incessantly,  "  Ah ! 
for  the  sad  how  slow  the  hours  fly." 

Mon  ami,  see  if  you  can  dine  with  me  to-morrow  or  Mon- 
day at  the  Comte  de  C  .  .  .'s.  Choose  your  day;  I  would 
rather  it  were  Monday,  but  you  shall  decide. 

One  o'clock,  1776. 

If  any  kindness  remains  in  you,  ah !   pity  me ;  I  cannot 

answer  you,  I  know  nothing  more ;  body  and  soul  are  both 

annihilated.     That  lease  ?  break  it ;  bind  me ;  do  what  you 

will ;   all  is  to  me  beyond  indifference.     Ah !    my  God !    I 

know  myself  no  more. 

1776. 

You  are  mistaken ;  it  is  not  I  who  am  necessary  to  you ; 
but  no  matter  as  you  wish  it  I  will  expect  you  and  pass  the 
evening  with  you.  But  it  is,  in  truth,  sacrificmg  my  rest  to 
you  ;  I  regret  it,  because  it  is  doing  nothing  for  your  happiness. 
There  are  two  sorts  of  things  in  nature  which  cannot  tolerate 


1776'j  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  291 

mediocrity,  and  you  lead  me  to  that  quality  which  I  detest 
and  for  which  my  soul  was  never  made.  Oh,  heaven '  why 
did  I  ever  know  you  ?  I  should  never  have  felt  remorse, 
and  I  should  not  now  be  living.  And  see  with  what  you 
fill  my  life  and  my  soul !  I  make  you  no  reproaches,  but  I 
express  the  keen  regret  I  feel  for  the  terrible  mistake  into 
which  I  fell. 

Bring  back  to  me  the  letter  of  the  Comtesse  de  Boufflers. 
M.  de  Yaines  will  not  come  this  evening;  he  stayed  yester- 
day till  eleven  o'clock ;  he  charged  me  to  remind  you  of 
Monday,  because  he  did  not  know  where  you  were  lodging. 

1776. 

I  send  away  M.  de  La  Eochefoucauld  that  I  may  answer 
you.  Your  kindness,  this  active  interest  touches  me  deeply  ; 
but,  mon  ami,  if  the  feeling  that  you  have  for  me  is  painful 
to  you  and  sorrowful,  I  must  wish  to  see  it  chilled  ;  for  it 
would  be  dreadful  to  see  you  suffer.  Ah !  we  ought  both  to 
have  the  same  regret ;  the  day  we  met  was  a  fatal  day ; 
why  did  I  not  die  before  it  dawned  ?  —  My  day  has  been 
filled  with  pain  and,  what  is  quite  extraordinary,  with  a 
depression  that  I  did  not  think  could  be  allied  with  active 
suffering. 

What  sad  pleasure  I  had  in  again  seeing  Mme.  Geoffrin ! 
it  did  me  harm ;  I  saw  that  her  end  was  nearer  than  even 
mine.  I  have  never  been  able  to  master  tears ;  they  con- 
quered me  before  her,  and  I  was  grieved.  Ah  !  my  bonds 
are  too  strong,  they  are  fastened  too  directly  to  my  heart ; 
it  seems  as  though  I  ought  to  have  but  one  regret,  one 
sorrow,  and  yet  I  often  find  my  soul  all  living  with  affections 
and  with  interests  that  rend  it.  If  you  continue  to  grieve 
over  my  troubles  you  will  make  me  feel  the  duration  of 
them  intolerable.    I  know  you  well,  mon  ami  ;  my  death  will 


292  LETTERS   OF  [1776 

be  a  trouble  for  you  ;  but  the  rapidity  of  your  ideas  assures 
me  that  you  are  forever  sheltered  from  great  sorrows.  Ah  ! 
so  much  the  better ;  I  1  dess  God  for  it. 

Eleven  o'clock,  1776. 

Why  do  you  suppose  that  I  am  prompted  by  a  dreadful 
sentiment  ?  See  better.  Should  I  have  strength  for  it,  even 
if  I  had  the  inclination  ?  and  besides,  there  would  be  a  lack 
of  delicacy  in  showing  resentment  now,  when  I  have  reached 
a  point  where  I  have  no  longer  need  of  defence  or  ven- 
geance. Man  ami,  I  am  dying ;  that  fills  all,  and  it  settles 
all.  But  do  you  know  what  must  be  done  for  that  frightful 
feeling  you  suppose  me  to  have  ?  —  a  sedative  for  your  feel- 
ings, to  which  my  danger  has  given  a  moment's  vigour.  You 
must  chill  yourself,  harden  yourself,  and  flee  the  unhappy 
being  who  sheds  around  her  only  sadness  and  fear ;  you  must 
bring  yourself  to  a  state  of  mind  in  which,  when  the  event 
happens,  you  will  feel  no  further  ill-effects.  This  is  what 
my  generosity  and  my  interest  in  your  peace  of  mind  lead 
me  to  counsel  you,  aud  I  do  it  from  the  bottom  of  my  soul. 
Do  not  oppose  me  on  the  moral  side.  Moii  ami,  you  owe 
nothing  to  one  who  has  renounced  all ;  all  compact,  all  bond 
between  us,  everything  is  broken.  You  surely  see  it ;  my 
soul  is  now  impenetrable  to  consolation ;  scarcely  do  I  dare 
to  hope  for  a  few  moments'  respite  from  my  physical  ills.  I 
think  them  as  incurable  as  those  of  my  heart. 

I  have  yielded  to  friendship  in  seeing  Bordeu  [physician, 
friend  of  d'Alembert].  Before  long  the  same  friendship  will 
groan  at  the  uselessness  of  that  succour.  Good-night ;  I 
suffer  much;  I  wish  that  you  may  never  have  to  say  the 
same. 

Half-past  ten  o'clock,  1776. 

I  could  neither  read,  nor  write,  nor  dictate  at  eight  o'clock 
when  I  received  your  note ;  I  was  in  a  paroxysm  of  cough- 


1776]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  293 

ing  and  pain  which  did  not  allow  me  to  open  the  letter  till 
an  hour  later.  This  morning  my  pains  became  so  severe 
that  I  was  threatened  with  inflammation.  I  tried  all 
remedies  to  obtain  relief;  and  in  such  a  crisis  you  see,  of 
course,  that  my  door  was  closed  necessarily.  The  Arch- 
bishop of  Aix  and  two  other  persons  came  before  you  did. 
Why  should  I  exclude  you  ?  —  because  you  did  not  see  me 
yesterday  ?  Such  thoughts,  such  emotions  only  come  when 
we  believe  ourselves  loved,  and  above  all  when  we  expect 
pleasure ;  but  now,  in  my  state,  there  can  be  none.  I  long 
only  for  relief. 

Do  not  come  to-morrow  morning ;  my  door  will  be  closed 
without  exception  till  four  o'clock.  I  am  no  longer  mistress 
of  my  ills ;  they  have  takerr  possession  of  me,  and  I  yield 
to  them.  Do  not  think  that  I  have  no  desire  to  see  you ; 
but  I  grieve  for  the  melancholy  manner  in  which  you  would 
have  to  pass  your  evening  with  me ;  whereas  at  home  you 
are  surrounded  with  all  sorts  of  pleasure.  No  sacrifices, 
mon  ami  ;  the  sick  repulse  such  efforts  —  although  so  few  are 
made  for  them ! 

1776. 

Friendship  does  miracles.  Here  is  the  matter :  the 
Vicomte  de  Chamans  has  asked  for  a  furlough ;  if  he  does 
not  obtain  it  and  is  not  able  to  go  to  Monaco,  he  is  a  lost 
man.  He  has  the  fatal  experience  of  the  last  two  winters. 
I  do  not  say  to  you,  "  Ask  for  his  furlough,"  because  that 
may  not  be  the  best  thing  to  do.  But  speak  of  his  bad 
health,  of  the  danger  he  is  running,  especially  in  an  air  that 
is  deadly  to  him.  In  short,  mon  ami,  plead  for  his  life  ;  it 
will  be  averting  from  the  remainder  of  mine  one  of  the 
deepest  sorrows  I  can  henceforth  feel.  Ask  Baron  d'Holbach 
to  unite  his  efforts  with  yours,  and  tell  the  effect  of  the  sea 
(which  he  has  seen)  on  this  unfortunate  young  man. 


294  LETTERS   OF  [!776 

1  am  awaiting  news  of  you,  because  you  promised  them  to 
me ;  though  I  thhik  it  much  sweeter  and  more  natural  to 
talk  with  her  who  has  consecrated  her  life  to  you  than  with 
me  who  am  about  to  part  with  mine.  Ah  !  I  can  no  more 
—  and  that  is  true.     Good-night. 

1776. 

Yesterday  I  was  lost  in  the  void ;  that  degree  of  depres- 
sion resembles  death,  Init,  uiilia])i)ily,  it  is  not  death.  At  six 
o'clock  I  thought  you  might  perhaps  be  very  near  to  me,  but 
even  so,  you  may  have  been  far  away  in  thought,  for  persons 
in  the  same  room  are  often  little  together.  Mon  ami,  do  not 
come  at  ten  o'clock  at  night ;  come  earlier.  Do  you  know 
what  inures  me  a  little  to  your  hardships  ?  it  is  that  M.  de 
Condorcet,  who  goes  on  foot  to  'Nogent  every  week,  tells  me 
that  those  walks  have  strengthened  him  perceptibly.  His 
walk  is  four  leagues  long ;  I  ■  think  your  street  is  too  far 
off;  you  ought  to  come  in  a  carriage  and  dismiss  it  at  my 
door. 

As  a  favour  bring  me  this  evening  your  journey  to  Prussia 
and  Vienna.  Yes,  I  want  it  just  as  it  is ;  if  you  say  no,  we 
shall  quarrel. 

Monday,  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning,  1776. 

Man  ami,  you  have  seen  me  very  weak,  very  unliappy. 
Usually  your  presence  suspends  my  ills,  and  arrests  my  tears. 
To-day  I  succumb,  and  I  know  not  which,  my  soul  or  my 
body,  gives  me  the  most  pain.  This  condition  is  so  deep- 
seated  that  I  have  just  refused  the  comforts  of  friendship ;  I 
prefer  to  be  alone,  and  talk  with  you  a  moment  before  I  go 
to  bed,  to  the  sweetness  and  sadness  of  complaining  and  oblig- 
ing others  to  share  my  pain. 

I  have  just  remembered  that  you  told  me  you  liked  to  stay 
at  home  on  Tuesdays  and  Thursdays.  Your  kindness  made 
you  forget  it,  and  now  I  give  you  back  your  promise.     3Ion 


1776]  MLLE.  DE   LESPINASSE.  295 

ami,  never  did  I  less  desire  that  you  should  make  sacrifices 
to  me.  Alas  !  you  see  yourself  if  I  am  in  a  condition  to  en- 
joy ;  I  can  only  cry  to  you,  "  Do  not  reopen  my  wound." 
All  my  desires  are  limited  to  that. 

It  seems  to  me  that,  if  you  were  willing,  yom-  trips  to 
Versailles  might  be  less  frequent.  —  Mon  ami,  if  you  come 
to  me  to-morrow,  bring  me  the  rest  of  your  "  Journey,"  and 
my  blue  pamphlet ;  if  you  have  the  latter  at  hand  give  it 
to  my  servant.  —  Mon  ami,  have  you  sent  my  note  to  the 
landlord  of  this  house  ?  How  often  I  regret  the  trouble 
which  I  gave  you  about  this  lodging.  Adieu.  I  have  not, 
truly,  the  strength  to  hold  my  pen ;  all  my  faculties  are  em- 
ployed in  suffering.  Ah  !  I  have  reached  the  end  of  life, 
where  it  is  almost  as  painful  to  die  as  to  live ;  I  fear  pain 
too  much;  the  troubles  of  my  soul  have  exhausted  all  my 
strength.  Mon  ami,  sustain  me  ;  but  do  not  suffer ;  for  that 
would  become  my  keenest  pain.  I  repeat  to  3-ou  heartily, 
sincerely,  do  not  take  to-morrow  evening  from  your  family ; 
to-morrow  is  Tuesday. 

1776. 

How  like  you  that  is  !  so  beyond  all  measure ;  sending 
twice  in  one  night !  Ah  !  best  of  men  !  —  Yes,  calm  your- 
self ;  I  repeat,  you  will  increase  my  ills ;  your  grief  does  me 
harm,  much  harm.  I  have  just  taken  sedatives ;  I  am  not 
yet  relieved.  I  am  in  my  bed,  and  I  shall  think  much  of 
the  sorrow  you  are  feeling.  —  Do  not  come  before  midday. 
Adieu, 

Four  o'clock,  1776. 

You  are  too  kind,  too  amiable,  mon  ami.  You  are  seeking 
to  revive,  to  sustain  a  soul  which  succumbs  at  last  beneath 
the  weight  and  duration  of  its  suffering.  I  know  all  tlie 
value  of  your  feeling,  though  I  do  not  any  longer  seek  it. 
There  was  a  time  when  to  be  loved  by  you  would  have  left 


296  LETTERS  OF  [1776 

me  nothing  to  desire,  or,  at  least,  would  have  softened  all 
bitterness ;  I  should  have  wished  to  live.  To-day  I  wish 
only  to  die.  There  is  no  compensation,  no  alleviation  for  the 
loss  that  I  have  met  with ;  I  ought  not  to  have  survived  it. 
That,  mon  ami,  is  the  only  bitter  feeling  that  I  find  in  my 
soul  to  you.  —  I  would  I  could  know  your  fate ;  I  wish  that 
you  may  be  happy. 

I  received  your  letter  at  one  o'clock ;  I  had  a  burning 
fever.  I  cannot  tell  you  the  time  it  took  and  the  ditticulty 
I  had  to  read  it.  I  would  not  put  it  off  imtil  to-day,  and  the 
effort  threw  me  almost  into  delirium.  I  expect  more  news  of 
you  to-night.  Adieu,  mon  ami.  If  ever  I  returned  to  life  I 
would  again  employ  it  in  loving  you  —  but  there  is  now  no 
time. 


MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  297 


J  Facsimile  of  the  handwriting  of  Mile,  de  Lespinasse  and  of  her  seal 


-98  LiyriKiis  OF  mllk.  de  lespinassp:. 

Q  ty^  C^^/^  /^^  />^^^A^ 


PORTEAIT  OF  MLLE.  DE  LESPINASSE. 

By  D'ALEMBERT. 

[Portraits  of  the  living  and  Eulogies  of  the  dead  were  a 
fashion  of  the  period  ;  the  Eulogies  were  usually  offered  for  com- 
petition and  read  before  the  French  Academy;  the  Portraits 
circulated  in  the  salons  or  were  given  to  their  originals.  Mile, 
de  Lespinasse  wrote  one  on  tlie  Marquis  de  Condorcet.  That  of 
herself  by  d'Alembert  was  addressed  to  her  in  1771,  and  first 
published  in  his  "  GEuvres  Postliumes  "  in  1799.  The  "  Eulogy  of 
Eliza, "  by  M.  de  Guibert,  appearetl  for  the  first  time  in  a  collec- 
tion of  Eulogies  written  by  him  and  published  by  his  widow  in 
1806,  before  her  publication  of  the  Letters,  edited  by  Barrere, 
in  1809.  The  name  Eliza  is  given  in  memory  of  Eliza  Draper, 
the  friend  of  Sterne,  the  favourite  author  of  Mile,  de  Lespinasse. 
At  the  close  of  the  Eulogy  M.  de  Guibert  names  her  Claire- 
FranQoise,  and  no  explanation  is  given  of  this  misnomer.  The 
Address  to  her  Manes  by  d'Alembert  appeared  first  in  his  Posthu- 
mous Works  above-mentioned.] 

Time  and  habit,  which  change  all  things,  Mademoiselle, 
which  destroy  our  opinions  and  our  illusions,  which  anni- 
hilate or  enfeeble  love  itself,  can  do  nothing  against  the 
feeling  that  I  have  for  you,  which  you  have  inspired  in  me 
for  the  last  sixteen  years ;  that  feeling  is  strengthened  more 
and  more  by  the  knowledge  that  I  have  of  the  lovable  and 
solid  qualities  that  form  your  character  ;  it  makes  me  feel 
at  this  moment  the  pleasure  of  occupying  my  mind  with  you 
that  I  may  paint  you  such  as  I  see  you.     . 


300  PORTRAIT   OF 

You  say  you  do  not  wish  me  to  limit  myself  to  making 
half  your  portrait  by  writing  a  panegyric ;  you  wish  the 
shadows  to  be  in  it,  aj)}>arently  to  put  in  relief  the  truth  of 
the  rest ;  and  you  order  me  to  tell  you  your  faults,  and  even, 
if  occasion  be,  your  vices,  should  1  know  of  any.  I  know 
of  none,  and  I  am  almost  sorry,  so  eager  am  I  to  obey  you. 
Of  faults,  I  know  several,  and  some  of  them  are  quite  dis- 
pleasing to  those  who  love  you.  Do  you  think  that  declara- 
tion too  coarse  ?  I  could  wish  that  you  had  other  defects 
than  those  for  which  I  must  blame  you.  I  would  like  to 
find  in  you  those  faults  that  make  us  lovable,  that  are  the 
effect  of  passions ;  for  I  own  that  I  like  defects  of  that 
nature  ;  but,  unhappily,  those  for  which  I  have  to  blame  you 
are  not  of  it ;  they  prove,  perhaps  (I  whisper  this  in  your 
ear),  that  passion  is  not  in  you. 

I  shall  not  speak  to  you  of  your  face  ;  you  make  no  pre- 
tensions for  it,  and  besides,  it  is  a  matter  of  which  an  old 
and  sad  philosopher  like  me  takes  no  heed ;  he  is  no  judge, 
he  may  even  pique  himself  on  his  lack  of  judgment,  be  it 
ineptitude,  be  it  vanity,  which  you  jjlease.  I  shall,  however, 
say  of  your  exterior,  what  seems  to  me  to  strike  every  one, 
that  you  have  much  nobleness  and  grace  in  your  bearing, 
and  (what  is  far  preferable  to  cold  beauty)  much  expression 
and  soul  in  your  countenance.  I  could  name  to  you  more 
than  one  of  your  friends  who  would  have  for  you  some- 
thing other  than  friendship  did  you  permit  it. 

The  liking  one  has  for  you  does  not  depend  exclusively  on 
your  external  charms  ;  it  is,  above  all,  derived  from  those  of 
your  mind  and  your  nature.  Your  mind  pleases,  and  ought 
to  please,  through  many  fine  qualities,  by  the  excellence  of 
your  tone,  by  the  correctness  of  your  taste,  by  the  art  you 
have  of  saying  to  each  that  which  suits  him. 

The  excellence  of  your  tone  would  not  be  praise  for  a  per- 


MLLE.  DE  LESPINASSE.  301 

son  born  at  Court,  who  can  speak  and  act  only  in  the  manner 
she  has  learned ;  you,  on  the  contrary,  came  from  the  depths 
of  a  province,  where  you  had  no  one  to  teach  you.  Never- 
theless, you  were  as  perfect  on  this  point  the  morrow  of  your 
arrival  in  Paris  as  you  are  to-day.  From  that  first  day  you 
have  been  as  free,  as  little  out  of  place,  in  the  most  brilliant 
and  most  fastidious  society  as  if  you  had  lived  in  it  all  your 
life ;  you  felt  its  usages  before  you  knew  them ;  which  re- 
veals an  accuracy  and  delicacy  of  tact  that  is  very  uncom- 
mon, and  also  an  exquisite  knowledge  of  conventions.  In 
a  word,  you  divined  the  language  of  what  is  called  "  good 
society "  just  as  Pascal  in  his  "  Provincials "  di\dned  the 
French  language,  which  was  not  formed  in  his  day,  and  the 
tone  of  polite  pleasantry,  which  he  certainly  could  have 
learned  from  no  one  ui  the  retreat  where  he  lived.  But  as 
you  thoroughly  feel  that  you  have  this  merit,  and  even  that 
in  you  it  is  not  an  ordinary  merit,  you  have  perhaps  the 
defect  of  attaching  too  much  value  to  it  in  others ;  they  must 
have  many  real  qualities  to  make  you  pardon  the  absence 
of  this  one ;  on  this  point,  of  little  importance,  you  are 
pitiless  to  the  extent  of  being  finical. 

Yes,  Mademoiselle,  the  only  thing  on  which  you  are  over- 
delicate,  and  over-delicate  to  the  point  of  being  odious  (here 
I  am  like  Mme.  Bertrand  in  the  comedy ;  "  I  start  with  in- 
vectives "  because  I  am  defending  my  onnii  hearthstone),  is 
your  extreme  sensitiveness  to  what  is  called  "  good  style  "  in 
manners  and  speech  ;  the  lack  of  that  quality  you  think 
scarcely  effaced  by  the  truest  sentiment  that  can  be  shown 
to  you.  On  the  other  hand,  there  are  men  in  whom  the 
presence  of  that  quality  supplies  the  lack  of  all  the  others ; 
you  know  them  such  as  they  are,  weak,  selfish,  full  of  au-s, 
incapable  of  deep  and  consistent  feeling,  but  agreeable  and 
full  of  graces,  and  you  have  a  great  inclination  to  prefer 


302  POKTRAIT  OF 

them  to  your  faithful  aud  more  sincere  friends ;  with  a  few 
more  cares  and  attentions  for  you  they  might  eclipse  all 
others  in  your  eyes,  and  perhaps  take  the  place  of  all. 

The  same  correct  taste  which  has  given  you  so  great  a 
sense  of  the  usages  of  society,  shows  itself,  as  a  general 
thing,  in  your  judgment  of  books.  You  are  seldom  mis- 
taken ;  and  you  would  be  even  less  so  if  you  were  always 
firmly  of  your  own  opinion  and  did  not  judge  by  that  of  per- 
sons at  whose  feet  your  intellect  has  the  kindness  to  prostrate 
itself,  though  they. are  very  far  from  possessing  the  gift  of 
infallibility.  You  do  them  sometimes  the  honour  to  wait 
for  their  advice  to  form  an  opinion  which  is  not  worth  that 
which  you  would  have  formed  for  yourself. 

You  have  still  another  fault ;  it  is  to  prepossess  yourself 
or,  as  they  say,  infatuate  yourself,  to  excess  in  favour  of  cer- 
tain works.  You  judge  with  sufficient  justice  and  accuracy 
of  all  books  in  which  there  is  a  moderate  degree  of  feeling 
.  and  warmth ;  but  when  those  two  qualities  dominate  certain 
parts  of  the  work,  all  its  blemishes,  however  considerable 
they  may  be,  at  once  disappear  to  you ;  it  is  "  perfect "  in 
your  eyes  ;  you  need  more  time  and  cooler  judgment  to 
see  it  as  it  really  is.  I  must  add,  however,  to  console  you 
for  this  censure,  that  all  that  belongs  to  sentiment,  to  feeling, 
is  a  matter  in  which  you  are  never  mistaken ;  it  may  be 
called  your  domain. 

Wliat  distinguishes  you  above  all  in  society  is  the  art  of 
saying  to  each  one  that  which  suits  him ;  and  this  art,  though 
little  common,  is  very  simple  in  you  ;  it  consists  in  never 
speaking  of  yourself  to  others,  but  much  of  them.  That  is 
your  infallible  means  of  pleasing ;  consequently  you  please 
widely,  though  it  is  very  far  from  everybody  who  pleases 
you ;  you  even  defer  to  persons  who  are  the  least  agi-eeable 
to  you.     This  desire  to  please  every  one  made  you  say  a 


MLLE.  DE  LESPINASSE.  303 

thing  which  might  give  a  bad  opinion  of  you  to  those  who 
did  not  know  you  thoroughly.  "  Ah  !  "  you  exclaimed  one 
day,  "  how  I  wish  I  knew  everybody's  foible  !  "  That  wish 
seemed  to  come  from  consummate  policy,  and  a  policy  that 
bordered  on  duplicity;  nevertheless  you  have  no  duplicity 
in  you ;  your  policy  is  simply  the  desire  to  be  thought  agree- 
able ;  and  you  desire  this,  not  through  a  feeling  of  vanity, 
from  which  you  are  only  too  far  removed,  but  through  your 
liking  and  need  to  shed  more  charm  over  your  daily  life. 

Though  you  please  every  one  in  general,  yet  you  please 
agreeable  people  specially ;  and  you  please  them  by  the 
effect  which  they  produce  on  you,  by  the  species  of  enjoy- 
ment which  their  self-love  derives  from  seeing  how  much 
you  feel  their  charm ;  you  have  the  air  of  being  grateful  to 
them  for  those  charms,  as  if  they  were  for  you  only,  and  you 
thus  double,  so  to  speak,  the  pleasure  they  have  in  feeling 
that  they  are  charming. 

The  refinement  of  taste,  which  is  coupled  in  you  with  this 
continual  desire  to  please,  results,  on  the  one  hand,  in  there 
being  nothing  studied  or  laboured  about  you,  while  on  the 
other  hand,  there  is  nothing  careless ;  |  hence  it  may  be  said 
of  you  that  you  are  very  natural,  and  not  at  all  simjjle.  j 

Discreet,  prudent,  and  reserved,  you  possess  the  art  of 
controlling  yourself  without  effort,  and  of  hiding  your  feel- 
ings without  dissimulating  them.  True  and  frank  with  those 
you  esteem,  experience  has  rendered  you  distrustful  with 
others ;  but  this  characteristic,  which  is  a  vice  when  we 
begin  life,  is  a  precious  quality  in  those  who  have  lived. 

Nevertheless,  this  care,  this  circumspeetion  in  society, 
which  are  usual  in  you,  do  not  prevent  you  from  being  some- 
times inconsiderate.  It  has  happened,  though  in  truth  very 
rarely,  that  you  have  suffered  certain  speeches  to  escape  you 
m  presence  of  certain  persons  which  have  injured  you  much 


304  PORTKAIT  OF 

with  those  persons;  tliis  comes  from  your  being  frank  by 
nature,  and  discreet  from  reflection  only ;  nature  will  escape 
sometimes  in  spite  of  all  our  efforts. 

The  various  contrasts  offered  by  your  character,  of  natural- 
ness without  simplicity,  of  reserve  and  imprudence,  contrasts 
wliich  come  in  you  from  the  struggle  between  art  and  nature, 
are  not  the  only  ones  that  exist  in  your  manner  of  being; 
you  have  others,  and  always  from  the  same  cause.  You  are 
both  gay  and  melancholy — gay  by  nature,  melancholy  from 
reflection ;  your  fits  of  melancholy  are  the  result  of  the  many 
misfortunes  you  have  met  with ;  your  physical  or  your  men- 
tal condition  of  the  moment  gives  birth  to  them ;  you  yield 
yourself  to  them  with  dolorous,  and  at  the  same  time 
such  deep  satisfaction  that  ycni  will  hardly  allow  yourself  to 
be  snatched  from  melancholy  by  gaiety ;  while,  on  the  con- 
trary, you  fall  back  with  a  species  of  pleasure  from  gaiety  to 
melancholy. 

Though  you  are  not  always  melancholy,  you  are  perpetually 
filled  by  another  feeling  that  is  sadder  still :  disgust  of  life ; 
and  that  disgust  so  seldom  leaves  you  that,  if  in  a  gay  mood 
some  one  proposed  to  you  to  die,  you  would  consent  without 
difficulty.  This  feeling  is  derived  from  the  deep  and  keen 
impression  that  your  sorrows  have  left  upon  you ; .  even  your 
affections,  the  species  of  passion  which  you  put  into  them, 
cannot  remove  it ;  it  is  plain  that  sorrows,  if  I  may  so  say 
it,  have  fed  you,  and  that  affections  can  do  no  more  than 
comfort  you. 

It  is  not  only  by  your  charm  and  your  intellect  that  you 
please  generally ;  it  is  also  by  your  character.  Though  much 
alive  to  the  ridiculous,  no  one  is  farther  than  you  from  cast- 
ing ridicule  on  others ;  you  abhor  malignity  and  satire ;  you 
hate  no  one  —  unless  it  may  be  one  woman,  who  has,  in 
truth,  done  all  she  could  to  make  you  hate  her ;  but  even  so, 


MLLE.   DE  LESPINASSE.  305 

your  hatred  to  her  is  not  active,  though  hers  to  you  has 
reached  the  point  of  being  ridiculous  and  of  making  that 
woman  extremely  unhappy. 

You  have  another  very  rare  quality,  especially  in  a  woman  : 
you  are  not  in  any  way  envious ;  you  do  justice,  with  the 
sincerest  satisfaction,  to  the  charms  and  good  qualities  of  all 
the  women  whom  you  know ;  you  do  this  even  to  your  enemy 
in  all  she  has  that  is  good  and  estimable,  agreeable  and 
piquant. 

Nevertheless,  —  for  I  must  not  flatter  you,  even  in  saying 
what  is  true  of  you,  —  that  good  quality,  rare  as  it  is,  is  perhaps 
less  praiseworthy  in  you  than  it  would  be  in  many  others. 
If  you  are  not  envious  it  is  not  exactly  because  you  think  it 
right  that  others  should  have  advantages  over  you ;  it  is  that 
looking  around  you,  all  existing  beings  seem  to  you  equally, 
to  be  pitied,  and  you  feel  that  there  are  none  with  whom  you 
would  desire  to  change  situations.  If  there  were,  or  you 
knew  a  being  sovereignly  happy,  you  would  perhaps  be  very 
capable  of  bearing  him  envy ;  you  have  often  been  heard  to 
say  that  it  was  just  that  persons  who  have  great  advantages 
should  also  have  great  sorrows  to  console  those  who  were 
tempted  to  be  jealous  of  them.  Do  not  think,  however,  that 
your  lack  of  jealousy  ceases  to  be  a  virtue,  though  its  source 
may  not  be  as  pure  as  it  might  be ;  for  how  many  persons 
there  are  who  do  not  believe  that  others  are  happy,  and  who 
would  not  desire  to  be  in  their  place,  and  yet  are  jealous  of 
them. 

Your  aversion  to  malignancy  and  envy  presupposes  in  you 
a  noble  soul ;  and  yours  is  such  in  every  respect.  Though 
you  desire  fortune  and  have  need  of  it,  you  are  incapable  of 
taking  any  action  to  procure  it ;  you  have  not  even  profited 
by  the  favourable  occasions  which  you  have  had  at  times  to 
make  yourself  a  happier  lot. 

20 


306  PORTRAIT  OF 

Not  only  is  your  soul  very  lofty,  it  is  also  very  sensitive ; 
but  your  sensitiveness  is  to  you  a  torture,  not  a  pleasure. 
Your  are  convinced  that  happiness  comes  only  through  the 
passions,  and  you  know  the  danger  of  the  passions  too  well 
to  yield  to  them.  You  therefore  love  only  so  far  as  you 
dare ;  but  you  love  all  that  you  can  and  as  much  as  you  can. 
You  give  to  your  friends  out  of  the  sensibility  that  overloads 
you  all  that  you  can  permit  yourself  to  give ;  but  there  still 
remains  a  superabundance  which  you  know  not  what  to  do 
with,  and  which  you  woidd  willingly  fling,  so  to  speak,  to  all 
passers.  This  superabundance  of  sensibility  renders  you 
very  compassionate  to  the  unhappy,  even  to  those  you  do  not 
know;  you  think  no  trouble  too  great  to  comfort  them. 
With  that  disposition,  it  is  natural  that  you  should  be  very 
obligmg;  and  no  one  can  do  you  a  greater  pleasure  than  to 
furnish  you  the  occasion ;  it  is  giving  food  to  both  your  kind- 
ness and  your  natural  energy.  I  have  said  that  you  give  to 
your  friends  "  all  the  feelings  that  you  can  permit  yourself 
to  give ; "  you  even  grant  them  something  beyond  what  they 
think  they  have  a  right  to  expect ;  you  defend  them  with 
courage,  under  all  circumstances  and  states  of  the  case, 
whether  they  are  right  or  wrong.  It  may  not  be  the  best 
way  to  serve  them ;  but  so  many  persons  abandon  their 
friends,  even  when  they  could  and  ought  to  defend  them, 
that  we  should  be  grateful  to  your  friendship  which  abhors 
and  flees  that  baseness,  even  to  excess. 

The  species  of  muffled,  intestine  emotion  which  agitates 
your  soul  incessantly  makes  it  not  as  equable  internally  as  it 
outwardly  seems,  even  to  your  friends.  You  are  often  sharp 
and  out  of  humour ;  but  in  consequence  of  your  desire  to 
please  generally  you  let  this  be  seen  by  none  but  the  author 
of  this  portrait ;  it  is  true  that  you  do  justice  to  his  friend- 
ship in  not  fearing  to  let  him  see  you  such  as  you  are ;  but 


MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  307 

this  very  friendship  feels  itself  obliged  to  tell  you  that  sharp- 
ness and  ill-humour  take  away  from  you  many  a  charm  ;  there- 
fore, in  the  interests  of  your  own  self-love,  friendship  coun- 
sels to  you  to  give  way  to  this  defect  as  little  as  you  can,  unless 
your  friends  deserve  it ;  which  can  happen  very  rarely,  thanks 
to  the  deep  and  just  feelings  that  fill  their  souls  for  you. 
You  admit  this  baleful  sharpness,  and  it  is  right  in  you  to 
do  so ;  what  would  be  better  still  would  be  to  correct  it. 

To  dispense  with  doing  that,  you  try  to  persuade  yourself 
it  is  incorrigible,  and  belongs  to  your  nature.  I  think  you 
deceive  yourself;  it  belongs  much  more  to  the  situation  in 
which  you  are  placed.  You  were  born  with  a  tender,  gentle, 
sensitive  soul ;  it  has  been  too  severely  tried,  and  the  effects 
upon  you  have  been  too  cruel.  You  may  say  what  you  please  ; 
extreme  sensibility  excludes  innate  sharpness.  That  vile 
fault  is  therefore  not  the  work  of  nature  in  you,  but  (what 
is  dreadful)  the  work  of  others.  Tlirough  being  thwarted, 
shocked,  wounded  in  all  your  sentiments  and  all  your  tastes, 
you  grew  accustomed  to  attach  yourself  to  nothing  ;  through 
repressing  the  sentiments  that  might  have  made  your  misery, 
you  numbed  those  which  would  have  shed  softness  into 
your  soul.  They  remained,  as  it  were,  asleep  in  the  depths  of 
your  nature,  without  motion,  without  energy ;  and  you  pre- 
pared much  harm  for  your  friends  when  you  took .  shelter 
from  that  which  your  enemies  were  seeking  to  do  to  you. 
In  striving  to  make  yourself  hard  to  yourself  you  have  be- 
come so  to  those  who  love  you. 

It  is  true  —  for  the  sentiment  is  not  annihilated  in  you, 
only  dormant  —  that  you  never  fail  to  repent  of  the  gi-ief  that 
your  sharpness  causes  whenever  you  see  that  the  impression 
is  deep ;  you  then  recover  your  natural  sensibility  ;  one  mo- 
ment, one  word,  repairs  all.  In  other  people  the  first  im- 
pulse is  the  effect  of  nature,  the  second  is  that  of  reflection  ; 


308  PORTRAIT   OF 

with  you  it  is  the  contrary  ;  and  such  is,  in  your  soul,  other- 
wise so  estimable,  the  cruel  and  unfortunate  effect  of  habit. 

Another  proof  that  this  sharpness  is  not  natural  to  you  is 
that  other  defect  for  which  I  have  already  blamed  you, 
which  is  almost  the  opposite  of  this  one  ;  I  mean  the  com- 
monplace desire  of  pleasing  all  about  you.  This  last  defect 
belongs  far  more  to  your  nature  than  the  first ;  it  has  given 
to  your  mind  the  qualities  most  fitted  to  please,  —  nobleness, 
accomplishment,  gi-ace.  It  is  very  natural  that  you  should 
try  to  gain  the  good  of  it,  and  you  succeed  but  too  well. 
I  know  no  one,  I  repeat,  who  pleases  so  generally  as  you, 
and  few  who  feel  the  pleasure  of  it  more  ;  you  do  not  even 
refuse  to  make  advances  when  they  are  not  made  previously 
to  you ;  on  this  point  your  pride  is  sacrificed  to  your  vanity. 
Sure  of  preserving  those  whom  you  have  once  acquired, 
you  are  principally  occupied  by  acquiring  others;  you  are 
not,  it  must  be  allowed,  as  fastidious  in  your  selections  as 
you  should  be.  The  refinement  and  nicety  of  your  tact 
ought  to  make  you  sensitive  on  the  choice  and  style  of  ac- 
quaintances ;  but  the  desire  to  have  a  court  and  what  society 
calls  friends  makes  you  rather  easy  in  your  selections,  and 
you  are  not  much  annoyed  by  tiresome  persons  provided  such 
persons  pay  you  attention. 

Names  and  titles  do  not  impress  you ;  you  receive  the 
great  as  they  should  be  received,  without  servility  and  with- 
out disdain.  Misfortune  has  given  you  the  honourable  pride 
which  it  inspires  always  in  those  who  have  not  deserved  it. 
Your  small  means  and  the  sad  knowledge  you  have  of  men 
make  you  dread  benefits,  the  yoke  of  which  is  often  to  be 
feared  for  well-born  souls;  perhaps  you  have  carried  this 
feeling  to  excess ;  but  in  this  respect  excess  is  a  virtue. 

Your  courage  is  greater  than  your  strength ;  indigence, 
ill-health,  misfortunes  of  all  kinds  have  tried  your  patience 


MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  309 

without  dejecting  it.  That  interesting  patience,  and  the 
spectacle  of  what  you  have  suffered  ought  to  make  you 
friends,  and  has  made  them;  you  have  found  some  consola- 
tion in  their  attachment  and  their  esteem. 

There,  Mademoiselle,  is  what  you  seem  to  me  to  be.  You 
are  not  perfect,  no  doubt ;  and  it  is,  truly,  so  much  the  better 
for  you  ;  the  perfect  Grandison  has  always  seemed  to  me  an 
odious  personage.  I  do  not  know  if  I  see  you  aright ;  but 
such  as  I  see  you  no  one  seems  to  me  more  worthy  to  ex- 
perience in  herself  and  to  make  others  experience  that  which 
alone  can  soften  the  ills  of  life,  —  the  comforts  of  tenderness 
and  confidence. 

In  finishing  this  portrait  I  cannot  add,  in  the  words  of  the 

old  song :  — 

"  The  prior  who  made  it 
Is  satisfied  with  it," 

but  I  feel  that  I  can  apply  to  you,  and  with  all  my  heart, 

Dufresny's  lines :  — 

"  What  faults  she  has. 
That  youthful  thing  !  We  love  her  with  them." 


THE  EULOGY  OF  ELIZA. 

By   M.    DE  GUIBERT. 

What  darkness  !  what  solitude  !  dreadful  emblem  of  my 
heart !  To-morrow  the  night  that  surrounds  me  will  have 
passed,  but  the  night  that  enfolds  Eliza  is  eternal !  to-morrow 
the  universe  will  waken  again  ;  Eliza  alone  will  never  waken. 

Soul  sublime,  where  art  thou  ?  in  what  region  ?  Ah  '  thou 
hast  returned  to  thy  source ;  thou  hast  taken  thy  flight  to  thy 
native  country  !  An  emanation  from  heaven,  heaven  has  re- 
called thee.     It  had  left  thee  too  long  to  dwell  among  men. 

Yes,  without  a  decree  of  heaven  Eliza  could  not  have  fallen 
a  prey  to  death.  She  was  so  active,  so  animated,  so  living ! 
Alas  :  for  the  last  two  years  her  soul  deceived  my  anxiety 
and  allayed  my  fears.  Daily  I  saw  her  fading  and  weaken- 
ing, but  never  was  her  mind  more  brilliant,  never  was  her 
heart  so  loving.  "  She  will  live,  she  will  live,"  I  said  to  my- 
self on  quitting  her.  "  So  much  life  must  surely  conquer 
death."  I  could  no  more  conceive  the  idea  of  her  dying  than 
that  of  the  sun  extinguished. 

Eliza  is  no  more !  who  will  enlighten  my  judgment,  who 
will  warm  my  imagination,  who  will  spur  me  to  glory,  who 
will  replace  in  me  the  profound  sentiment  with  which  she 
inspired  me  ?  What  shall  I  do  with  my  soul  and  with  my 
life  ?  0  my  heart !  recall  to  my  thoughts  what  she  was  !  I 
wish  to  extol  her,  and  to  extol  her  I  need  only  paint  her. 
Eliza  can  never  die  in  the  memory  of  her  friends,  but  her 


MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  311 

friends  will  some  day  die  as  she  has  died,  and  I  wish  her 
to  live  in  the  future ;  I  wish  that  after  me  some  tender  soul, 
reading  this  funeral  dirge,  may  regret  that  he  never  knew 
her,  and  pity  my  misfortune  in  survi\aiig  her. 

Eliza  related  to  me  several  times  the  first  years  of  her  life. 
All  that  we  see  in  our  theatres,  all  that  we  read  in  our 
novels,  how  cold  and  barren  they  are  beside  that  narrative  ! 
We  must  penetrate  the  interior  of  families  to  see  the  great 
scenes  of  passion  and  human  calamities.  Our  writers  mar 
them  with  their  imagination  ;  none  but  their  actors  and  their 
victims  can  picture  them.  Eliza  was  born  under  the  auspices 
of  love  and  misfortune.  Her  mother  was  a  woman  of  a 
great  name,  living  separate  from  her  husband.  She  brought- 
up  this  daughter  publicly,  as  though  she  had  the  right  to 
acknowledge  her  as  her  own,  and  she  kept  from  her  knowl- 
edge the  mystery  of  her  birth.  But  often,  in  secret,  she 
bathed  her  with  tears ;  she  seemed,  in  redoubling  her  tender- 
ness, to  wish  to  compensate  her  for  the  fatal  gift  she  had  made 
her  of  life.  She  loaded  her  with  caresses  and  benefits.  She 
gave  her,  herself,  the  first  of  all  benefits,  an  excellent  educa- 
tion ;  it  was  soon  to  be  all  that  remained  of  her.  She  died 
almost  suddenly,  and  at  the  moment  when  she  was  about  to 
endeavour  to  give  her  daughter  the  social  position  that  the 
laws  might  perhaps  have  granted  her.  Eliza  was  left  aban- 
doned to  relatives  who  soon  were  no  other  than  persecutors. 
They  told  her  what  she  was ;  from  the  position  of  a  cherished 
daughter  she  descended,  suddenly,  and  in  the  same  house,  to 
that  of  orphan  and  stranger.  Disdainful  and  brutal  pity 
took  charge  of  the  unfortunate  girl,  until  then  so  tenderly 
cared  for  by  remorse  and  by  natural  love ;  she  lived,  because 
she  was  then  of  an  age  when  unhappiness  does  not  kill, 
or,  to  speak  more  truly,  when  there  is  no  such  thing  as 
unhappiness. 


312  EULOGY  OF  ELIZA, 

She  was  far  from  beautiful,  and  her  features  were  still 
further  marred  by  the  small-pox ;  but  her  plainness  had  noth- 
ing repulsive  at  the  first  glance ;  at  the  second  the  eye  grew 
accustomed  to  it,  and  as  soon  as  she  spoke  it  was  forgot- 
ten. She  was  tall  and  well-made.  I  did  not  know  her  imtil 
she  was  thirty-eight  years  old,  and  her  figure  was  still  noble 
and  full  of  gi-ace.  But  what  she  possessed,  wliat  distin- 
guished her  above  all,  was  that  chief  charm  without  which 
beauty  is  but  a  cold  perfection  —  expression  of  countenance 
Iphysionomie'].  Hers  had  no  particular  character;  it  united 
all.  Thus  one  could  not  say  precisely  that  it  was  clever,  or 
brilliant,  or  sweet,  or  noble,  or  refined,  or  gracious,  —  a  species 
of  praise  by  which,  as  I  think,  we  degrade  the  faces  we  wish 
to  praise ;  for  when  a  face  has  an  habitual  expression,  that 
expression  is  more  the  effect  of  conformation  and  what  may 
be  called  style  of  feature,  than  physionomie  —  revelation  of 
nature.  That  revelation  on  the  countenance  comes  from 
within,  it  is  born  of  thought,  it  is  mobile  and  fugitive;  it 
escapes  the  eye  and  mocks  the  brush.  O  Eliza,  Eliza,  whoso 
has  not  had  the  happiness  to  live  in  your  intimacy,  in  your 
affections,  your  emotions,  your  confidence,  knows  nothing  of 
what  is  meant  by  expression  of  countenance.  I  have  seen 
faces  animated  by  intellect,  by  passion,  by  pleasure,  by  pain ; 
but  lights  and  shades  were  all  imknown  to  me  until  I  knew 
Eliza.  That  flame  of  heaven,  that  energy-  of  feeling,  —  in  short, 
if  I  may  so  express  it,  that  abundance  of  life,  —  Eliza,  when 
she  was  not  overwhelmed  by  troubles,  shed  on  aU  that  she 
wished  to  animate ;  but  she  wished  nothing  for  herself ;  she 
animated  all  without  personal  pretensions  or  projects.  One 
never  approached  her  soul  without  feeling  drawTi  by  it.  I 
have  known  apathetic  hearts  which  she  electrified ;  I  have 
seen  dull  minds  that  her  companionship  had  elevated.  "Eliza," 
I  said  to  her  once,  after  seeing  her  perform  that  operation, 


MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  313 

"  you  make  marble  feel  and  matter  thiDk."  "What  must  have 
been  that  celestial  soul  for  him  whom  she  had  made  its  first 
object,  for  him  who  animated  her  soul  in  return  ! 
■  0  thou  who  wert  that  object,  Gonsalve !  [M.  de  Mora] 
happy  Gonsalve !  thou  must  have  felt  thyself  beneath  the 
burning  climate  of  the  equator,  beloved  by  a  daughter  of  the 
Sun.  Death  removed  thee  in  the  midst  of  thy  career,  but 
thou  hadst,  in  those  few  years,  exhausted  all  the  happiness 
that  heaven  grants  to  man  on  earth :  thou  wert  loved  by 
Eliza.  Ah !  if  thou  couldst  know  what  she  became  after 
thee  !  she  lived  for  two  years  withered  by  sorrow,  bearing  the 
wound  of  grief  like  a  tree  struck  by  lightning,  and  she  ended 
blessing  death  as  she  expired. 

It  might  be  thought  that  Eliza,  thus  eagerly  occupied  by 
one  object,  was  less  than  before  to  her  friends ;  but  never  did 
she  love  them  better,  never  was  she  dearer  to  them.  Passion 
and  misfortune  seemed  to  have  given  to  her  soul  fresh 
activity,  new  vigour.  Ah  !  who  like  her  could  make  us  taste 
the  charms  of  friendship  ?  who  knew  like  her  how  to  ap- 
proach the  hearts  of  those  she  loved  ?  She  drew  confidence 
so  gently ;  she  understood  so  well  the  language  of  passion. 
With  whatever  sentiment  the  soul  was  fiUed  she  made  it 
feel  it  needed  to  communicate  with  hers;  and  each  was 
happier,  or  less  unhappy,  beside  her.  Were  we  in  that 
state  of  languor  which  is  the  habitual  condition  of  persons 
in  society  when  they  have  neither  pleasure  nor  pain,  in  Eliza's 
presence  we  came  out  of  it;  for,  seeing  her  suffering  and 
unhappy,  we  were  filled  with  a  sense  of  her  sorrows,  or  — 
as  happened  oftener — her  mind  and  soul  took  the  ascen- 
dency, and  then  what  interest !  what  conversation !  In  spite 
of  one's  self  one  had  to  listen,  to  think,  to  revive. 

Often,  in  comparing  Eliza  with  the  charming  women  and 
the  men  of  intellect  whom  I  have  known,  I  try  to  explain 


314  EULOGY   OF   ELIZA, 

to  myself  the  principle  of  that  charm  which  no  one  possessed 
as  she  did,  and  here  is  what,  it  seems  to  me,  it  consisted  in : 
she  was  always  free  from  personality,  and  always  natural. 
Free  from  'personality :  never  was  any  one  as  much  so. 
With  her  friends  it  was  from  feeling ;  she  had  always  more 
need  to  speak  to  them  of  their  selves  than  of  herself ;  with  ^ 
the  rest  of  the  world  it  was  from  delicacy  of  mind  and  judg- 
ment. She  knew  that  the  great  secret  of  pleasing  was  in 
forgetting  self  to  give  our  interest  to  others,  and  she  forgot 
herself  perpetually.  She  was  the  soul  of  a  conversation,  but 
she  never  made  herself  its  object.  Her  great  art  lay  in  show- 
ing the  minds  of  others  to  advantage ;  she  enjoyed  that  more 
than  to  show  her  o^vn.  Ahvays  natural :  she  was  that  in  her 
bearing,  in  her  movements,  in  her  gestures,  in  her  thoughts, 
in  her  expressions,  in  her  style  ;  and  at  the  same  time  this 
naturalness  had  something  that  was  elegant,  noble,  sweet, 
gay  ;  part  of  it  was  no  doubt  perfected  by  a  sound  educa- 
tion, an  exquisite  taste,  by  the  habits  of  her  youth  passed  in 
the  best  company,  and  among  the  most  agreeable  persons  of 
her  day ;  but  it  had  become  so  a  part  of  herself  that  we 
never  felt  that  art  had  aught  to  do  with  it ;  an  amiable  de- 
lusion which  vanishes  as  to  most  women  when  we  converse 
with  them  for  any  length  of  time. 

What  struck  me  most  in  conversing  with  Eliza  was  the 
relation,  the  harmony,  so  to  speak,  that  reigned  between  her 
thoughts  and  their  expression.  When  animated  by  her 
mind,  or  by  her  heart,  her  motions,  her  face, — all,  even  to  the 
tones  of  her  voice,  was  in  perfect  accord  with  her  words.  It 
is  from  lack  of  this  accord  that  the  conversation  of  so  many 
persons  of  mind  and  talent  is  without  warmth  and  without 
effect.  .  .  .  Again,  what  Eliza  possessed  in  a  supreme  degree 
was  tact,  —  so  rare  and  so  difficult  in  dealing  with  persons 
^ud  conventions.    Never  was  she  mistaken ;  never  did  she 


MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  315 

say  a  thing  of  feeling  to  one  who  could  not  feel  it,  or  ex- 
press a  noble  thought  to  those  who  could  not  understand  it. 
Her  conversation  was  neither  above  nor  below  those  to  whom 
she  spoke.  She  seemed  to  have  the  secret  of  all  natures,  the 
measure  and  the  shades  of  all  minds. 

Eliza  was  not  learned ;  she  was  well-informed  and  made 
no  pretension  in  being  so.  Her  knowledge  was  based  so 
securely  in  her  mind,  and  her  mind  so  niled  her,  that  it  was 
always  she,  and  not  her  knowledge,  that  we  felt  the  most. 
She  knew  English  and  Italian  and  read  the  literatures  of 
several  other  languages  in  our  best  translations.  But,  above 
all,  she  knew  her  own  language  perfectly.  She  made  sev- 
eral definitions  of  synonyms  which  the  Abbd  Ghard  and  the 
best  minds  of  the  Academy  would  not  have  disowned.  I 
never  knew  any  one  to  have  as  she  had  the  precious  gift  of 
the  right  word,  —  that  gift  without  which  we  cannot  have 
either  accuracy  or  gradation  of  expression ;  a  gift  which 
presupposes  equally  a  trained  mind,  a  profound  knowledge 
of  grammar,  and  — -  independently  of  natural  good  taste  — 
that  perfected  and  conventional  taste  which  can  be  acquired 
only  by  intercourse  with  men  of  letters  and  men  of  the 
world  both. 

The  best-written  books  have  their  moments  of  tedium  and 
their  lacunae  of  interest.  Eliza's  conversation,  whenever 
she  would  or  could  give  herself  up  to  it  wholly,  had  none. 
She  said  simple  things,  but  she  never  said  them  in  a  common 
way,  and  that  art  —  which  seemed  no  art  at  all  in  her  — 
never  made  itself  felt,  and  never  let  her  drop  into  mannerism 
or  affectation.  She  used  no  novel  terms  and  employed  no 
antitheses  or  double-meanings.  She  sometimes  applauded  a 
play  on  words  by  others,  but  it  had  to  be  appropriate,  in 
good  taste,  or  else  said  naturally,  on  the  spur  of  the  mo- 
jueut  and  with  ease,  which  to  her  eyes  was  always  a  chief 


316  EULOGY  OF   ELIZA, 

merit  in  all  things  ;  for  pretension,  of  whatever  kind  it  was, 
was  repugnant  to  her.  She  could  not  endure  whatever 
showed  effort  and  preparation.  She  would  almost  have  pre- 
ferred the  rough  and  sketchy  to  what  was  too  graceful,  too 
finished.  Hence  we  may  suppose  how  she  hated  the  affected 
manners,  the  airs,  and  other  follies  of  people  in  society. 

She  had  the  same  delicacy,  the  same  severity  of  taste 
about  works  of  the  mind.  She  was  never  able  to  accustom 
herself  to  the  verses  of  Cardinal  de  Bernis,  Dorat,  and  other 
poets  of  that  school.  She  thought  nothing  of  the  novels  of 
Cr(5billon,  Marivaux,  and  all  those  to  which  their  style  had 
given  birth  ;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  she  fed  herself  with 
Kacine,  Voltaire,  and  J^a  Fontaine.  She  knew  them  by 
heart ;  she  grew  impassioned  over  Jean-Jacques,  she  loved 
Le  Sage  and  Provost ;  but  she  put  above  them  all  the  im- 
mortal Richardson  ;  and  Sterne  she  had  read,  re-read,  trans- 
lated, and  adored.  It  was  she  who  made  in  Paris  the 
reputation  of  the  "  Sentimental  Journey."  Unequal  works, 
imperfect,  fantastic  even,  obtained  favour  in  her  eyes  pro- 
vided she  found  in  them  traits  of  genius  or  sensibility.  It 
was  thus  she  had  the  patience  to  decipher  "  Tristram 
Shandy."  The  death  of  ]\Ianon  in  the  "  Paysan  Perverti," 
made  her  defend  that  work,  filled  in  other  parts  with  ridicu- 
lous and  commonplace  things. 

Oh!  how  she  was  the  friend  of  what  was  good  in  all 
directions  !  how  she  enjoyed,  how  she  knew  how  to  praise 
what  had  pleased  her,  —  above  aU,  what  had  touched  her ! 
What  need  she  had  to  commimicate  her  feeling  to  all  whom 
she  thought  capable  of  sharing  it !  And  it  was  not  only  for 
works  of  literature  that  she  grew  impassioned :  all  the  Eirts 
of  taste  and  beauty  had  claims  upon  her.  A  fine  picture,  a 
good  piece  of  sculpture,  excellent  music  soothed  and  de- 
lighted her ;  and  in  those  different  arts  she  was  moved  by 


MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  317 

all  styles.  She  admired  the  mausoleum  of  Cardinal  de 
Richelieu,  and  the  little  dying  bird  of  Houdon  went  to  her 
heart ;  she  could  passionately  admire  Eubens,  and  the  next 
moment  she  enjoyed  a  miniature  by  Petitot ;  the  music  of 
Gr^try  enchanted  her,  but  on  the  morrow  an  air  from 
Orpheus  was  to  her  the  music  of  heaven.  She  never  con- 
foimded  these  styles ;  she  felt  them  all  and  in  feeling  them 
she  judged  them.  .  .  . 

She  was  accused  of  enthusiasm  and  prejudice  in  her  feel- 
ings. People  declared  tliat  they  could  not  conceive  how  her 
heart  could  suffice  for  so  many  friends.  Narrow  and  vulgar 
minds,  was  it  for  you  to  measure  and  comprehend  hers  ?  In 
the  first  place,  all  her  feelings  were  not  passions.  It  was 
with  her  feelings  as  with  her  tastes,  they  had  different  de- 
grees according  to  the  difference  iu  their  essence.  She  loved 
from  esteem,  from  attraction,  from  gratitude.  She  loved  in 
Areste  [d'Alembert]  genius  vmited  to  virtue;  lq  Sainval 
[probably  himself]  a  soul  of  fire  which  had,  perhaps,  some 
affinity  with  hers ;  in  Cleon,  Ergaste,  Valfere,  etc.,  such  or 
such  quality  of  mind  or  nature  which  justified  her  i^cnchant. 
O  you  who  were  her  friends,  say  if  ever  one  of  you  had 
cause  to  blame  her  friendship !  did  it  not  seem  to  you,  when 
suffering,  ill,  or  unhappy,  that  you  were  her  first  object?  She 
bound  us  to  one  another  by  an  interest  of  which  she  was  the 
mainspring  and  the  goal.  We  felt  ourselves  friends  in  her 
house  because  we  were  there  imited  by  the  same  sentiments, 
—  the  desire  to  please  her  and  the  need  of  loving  her.  Alas  ! 
how  many  persons  saw  one  another,  sought  one  another, 
suited  one  another  through  her,  who  will  never  see,  or  suit, 
or  seek  themselves  again  !  The  charm  of  her  circle  was  so 
in  her  that  the  persons  who  composed  it  were  not  the  same 
as  they  were  elsewhere.  It  was  only  in  her  presence  that 
they  had  their  full  value.   "  We  are  separated,"  I  said  yester- 


318  EULOGY  OF  ELIZA, 

day,  bursting  into  tears,  to  her  friends  gathei-ed  around  her 
at  the  moment  of  her  death ;  "  we  may  apply  to  ourselves 
the  words  of  Scripture :  '  The  Lord  hath  smitten  the  shep- 
herd, and  the  flock  is  scattered.'  " 

Eliza's  mind,  kindly  and  animated  as  it  was,  united  to 
those  qualities  precision  and  solidity.  She  had  never  culti- 
vated the  exact  sciences ;  but  she  studied  moral  questions, 
she  loved  sound  metaphysics,  and  read  Montaigne  much. 
She  knew  Locke,  before  Kousseau,  under  pleasanter  forms 
[in  "Elmile"],  had  made  him  pass  into  our  language.  She 
took  delight  in  Tacitus,  and  in  Montesquieu.  One  of  the 
living  authors  whom  she  esteemed  the  most  was  the  Abb^ 
de  Condillac.  All  that  was  strong  pleased  her  nature ;  all 
that  was  subtle  or  profound  pleased  her  mind. 

So  many  natural  and  acquired  advantages  might  have 
justified  in  Eliza  an  emotion  of  pride,  but  she  never  had  it. 
She  who  felt  and  judged  so  well  of  the  minds  of  others 
seemed  to  ignore  her  own,  and  even  to  distrust  it ;  thus  she 
wrote  nothing  for  the  public.  If  sometimes  her  soul  needed 
to  pour  itself  out,  either  for  her  own  sake  or  for  that  of  her 
friends,  she  took  the  greatest  care  that  the  secret  was  known 
only  to  them,  and  she  exacted  from  their  friendship  that  her 
letters  should  be  either  returned  to  her  or  destroyed.  Divers 
little  works  composed  by  her  are,  apparently,  lost  forever, 
such  as  three  chapters  in  the  style  of  the  "  Sentimental 
Journey,"  a  great  number  of  Synonyms,  an  Apology  for  her 
faults,  especially  that  facility  for  enthusiasm  and  infatua- 
tion with  which  she  was  reproached,  —  a  charming  bit  of 
writing  addressed  to  me,  of  which  I  was  too  scrupulous  to 
take  a  copy.  She  had  also  begun  the  memoirs  of  her  life, 
or  rather  of  her  passion  for  Gonsalve ;  for  she  began  them  at 
that  epoch,  as  if  her  life  had  dated,  to  her  eyes,  from  the 
moment  only  when  she  knew  him.     But  what  are  most  to 


MLLE.  DE  LESPlNASSE.  319 

be  regretted,  because  they  would  have  formed  a  vast  and 
varied  and  most  precious  collection,  are  her  letters.  They 
had  a  character,  a  touch,  a  style,  which  had  no  model  and 
could  not,  I  believe,  have  imitators.  The  style  was  neither 
that  of  Mme.  de  S^vign^  nor  that  of  Mme.  de  Maintenon. 
It  was  her  own,  and,  in  my  opinion,  far  above  theirs.  Her 
letters  were  fuller,  more  varied,  stronger  in  thought,  drawn 
more  completely  from  her  own  being ;  for  she  did  not  live, 
like  those  two  women,  on  what  was  happening  at  Court  and 
in  Europe ;  her  letters  were,  above  all  things,  living.  Ah  !  it 
is  in  that  that  this  celestial  creature  can  be  compared  to  no 
other  woman.  Her  letters  had  the  impulse  and  the  warmth 
of  conversation.  They  filled  the  place  of  absence  at  the  mo- 
ment of  receiving  them.  I  made  the  tour  of  Europe  and  her 
letters  followed  me,  consoled  me,  supported  me.  Alas !  I 
must  now  expect  and  hope  for  them  in  vain  !  It  is  not  the 
seas,  not  time  nor  space  that  parts  us,  it  is  that  which  can- 
not be  seen  or  measured  —  it  is  the  unknown  and  eternal 
gulf. 

So  far,  I  have  considered  Eliza  under  the  different  aspects 
of  her  mind  only  ;•  but  what  was  her  mind,  compared  to  her 
nature  and  her  soul '  How  can  I  laud  enough  her  virtues, 
her  lofty  spirit,  her  generosity,  her  disinterestedness,  her 
benevolence,  her  love  for  the  unfortunate !  Each  of  those 
virtues  was  natural  and  familiar  to  her  ;  she  practised  them 
as  one  walks,  as  one  breathes,  and  she  drew  no  self-praise 
from  themj  they  never  shone  in  her  conversation  with  pre- 
tension or  conceit ;  and  this,  because  the  moral  of  virtues 
exercised  from  feeling  and  from  native  character  never 
advertises  itself ;  it  is  only  the  fictitious  virtues  which  need 
an  outward  exhibition. 

But  to  paint  the  virtues  of  Eliza  it  does  not  suffice  to  men- 
tion thenu     Each  was  accompanied  by  circumstances  which 


320  EULOGY  OF  ELIZA, 

enhanced  its  merit  and  its  charm.  The  same  virtues  in  other 
persons  did  not  j)roduce  the  same  effect.  Her  soul  was 
strong  and  lofty.  All  that  was  vile  and  base,  or  merely 
petty  and  feeble,  excited  her  contempt  and  indignation. 
She  would  often  have  let  herself  go  into  vehement  pro- 
nouncements if  the  indulgence  and  amenity  of  mind  which 
were  natural  to  her  liad  not  tempered  her  first  impulse.  By 
this  great  nobility  of  soul  and  character  she  was,  in  a  way, 
replaced  in  the  rank  where  her  birth  would  have  put  her 
could  it  have  been  recognized  ;  the  silence  she  kept  about 
her  fate  added  to  its  interest,  and  the  delicate  position  in 
which  she  was  never  affected  injuriously  either  her  own 
bearing  or  the.  consideration  in  which  she  was  held.  She 
received  many  women,  and  women  of  high  rank,  with 
whom  she  had  that  noble  ease  which,  accompanying  respect, 
compels  a  return  of  consideration  from  the  other  person. 
She  paid  to  their  position  what  she  would,  if  need  were, 
have  refused  to  their  pride  ;  but  no  one  was  ever  tempted 
to  indulge  in  that  sentiment  with  her.  They  felt  she  had 
other  advantages  that  more  than  placed  her  on  their  level ; 
but  she  herself  never  made  those  advantages  felt.  They 
were  wrapped  in  manners  so  gentle,  so  amiable,  so  simple, 
that  they  never  wounded  either  pretension  or  mediocrity. 

Oh !  how  that  dignity  of  soul  and  character  shone  in  the 
constant  contempt  she  felt  for  riches  and  the  means  of  ac- 
quiring it.  Her  fortune  was  more  than  slight.  She  was 
surrounded  by  powerful  friends  who  could  have,  served  her 
.  in  this  respect  without  wounding  her  delicacy.  She  asked 
nothing  from  them  and  refused  their  assistance  often.  One 
day  I  was  talking  with  her  on  this  point  and  I  reproached 
her  for  rejecting  an  offer  of  service  that  had  just  been  made 
to  her.  "  Ah  !  "  I  said,  "  if  Gonsalve  had  made  you  that  ofifer 
would  you  have  refused  him  ?  "     "  Yes,"  she  replied,  "  Oon- 


MLLE.    DE    LESPINASSE.  321 

salve  more  than  any  one ; "  and  when  I  exclaimed  at  that, 
" Listen, mon  ami"  she  said ;  "  1  wish,  once  for  all,  to  explain 
to  you  my  principles ;  you  may  condemn  me,  but  you  cannot 
make  me  change  them."  And  the  next  day  she  wrote  me 
the  following  letter  :  — 

"  Yes,  I  should  have  refused  that  sort  of  service  had  Gon- 
salve  offered  it,  and  it  is  the  only  one  I  would  not  have  ac- 
cepted from  him  with  transport.  I  know  all  that  can  be 
said  against  such  scruples  by  philosophy  and  sentiment,  but 
it  is  our  detestable  institutions,  it  is  the  corruption  of  society 
that  forces  me  to  think  as  I  do.  Surrounded  by  other  man- 
ners and  morals,  other  prejudices  than  ours,  I  woidd  have  no 
more  scruple  in  relying  on  the  influence  and  wealth  of  Gon- 
salve  than  on  his  courage,  his  counsels,  and  all  the  ser\dces 
he  could  render  me.  But  in  a  society  and  a  country  where 
money  has  become  the  motive  power  of  all  actions,  where  by 
its  means  men  cau  corrupt  all  hearts  and  buy  all  feelings, 
never  shall  a  vile  calculation  of  self-interest  stain  my  inter- 
course with  those  I  love.  All !  what  would  Gonsalve  have 
thought  of  me  had  he  seen  me  for  one  moment  resemble  in 
this  so  many  other  women  ?  What  could  then  have  guar- 
anteed to  him  the  purity  of  my  feeling  ?  Esteem  is  so  deli- 
cate a  flower  that  the  slightest  impairment  withers  it.  Ah ! 
think  what  sorrow  it  would  have  been  to  me  to  be  lowered 
in  Gonsalve's  opinion.  I  preferred  the  place  I  occupied 
there  to  the  highest  throne  in  the  world. 

"  With  regard  to  my  friends,  I  will  own  to  you  that  I 
have  always  considered  equality  as  the  first  condition  to 
render  friendship  durable.  Now,  it  cannot  exist  from  the 
moment  that  one  friend  becomes  the  benefactor,  the  other 
the  obliged  and  beholden.  Eemember  that  I  am  speaking  of 
one  kind  of  benefit  only ;  as  for  the  cares,  attentions,  coun- 
sels, feelings  of  my  friends,  I  receive  them  because  I  can 

21 


J^S2  EULOGY   OF    ELIZA, 

return  them;  hence  there  is  reciprocity,  and  consequently 
equality  between  us.  But  liow  could  I  return  what  they 
might  do  t(j  increase  my  means  ?  I  should  be,  f(jr  the  rest  of 
my  life,  ill  at  ease  with  them ;  wherever  my  affection  worked 
I  should  fear  they  saw  only  my  gratitude.  In  sliort — and 
it  is  a  secret  of  the  luiman  heart  tliat  1  am  about  to  tell 
you  —  be  sure  that,  without  accounting  for  it  to  themselves, 
without  even  perceivuig  it,  they  would  love  me  less ;  and  as 
for  me,  I  should  feel  oppressed  by  the  sort  of  ascendency  I 
had  given  them  over  me. 

"  If  such  has  been  my  way  of  thinking  towards  him  I 
loved  best  in  the  world  and  towards  my  friends  in  general, 
you  can  judge  how  my  soul  would  revolt  at  the  idea  of  solic- 
iting, or  even  accepting  the  services  of  those  who,  not  being 
my  friends,  desire  to  serve  me  from  foolish  conceit,  for 
appearance'  sake  only,  or,  I  am  willing  to  say,  from  benevo- 
lence. But,  in  order  not  to  give  up  my  principles,  and  yet 
never  find  myself  harassed  between  necessity  and  those 
principles,  I  have  trained  myself  to  order  and  economy.  I, 
who  was  brought  up  in  habits  of  prodigality,  I,  who  from 
living  always  with  others  never  knew  the  cost  of  anything, 
I,  who  through  philosophy  am  led  to  consider  gold  as  dust 
beneath  my  feet,  I  have  subjected  and  trained  myself  to 
reckon  incessantly.  I  manage  to  reach  the  end  of  each  year 
without  embarrassments  and  without  debts ;  hence  my  friends 
never  hear  me  speak  of  my  want  of  means ;  never  does  a 
complaint  escape  me  in  their  presence,  nor  a  wish  —  an  in- 
direct manner  in  which  persons  often  solicit  services  they 
would  not  ask  openly.  My  friends  see  me  in  such  apparent 
security  on  this  point,  and  with  such  freedom  of  mind,  that 
they  must  now  have  forgotten  that  my  means  are  paltry,  and 
that  is  what  I  wish.  Finally,  whether  it  is  that  my  delicacy 
attaches  me  to  poverty,  or  that  being  so  occupied  with  active 


MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  323 

interests  the  enjoyments  of  wealth  are  nothing  to  me,  or 
whether,  again,  it  is  that,  feeling  my  life  so  near  extinction, 
I  do  not  think  of  the  future,  I  protest  to  you  that  never  once 
have  I  had  the  wish  to  see  my  fortune  changed." 

This  was  not  a  mere  display  of  maxims  ;  Eliza's  conduct 
never  contradicted  those  words.  I  will  merely  add  that  her 
economy  was  so  adroitly  managed  that  it  was  never  felt. 
She  was  always  simply  dressed,  but  with  taste.  All  that 
she  wore  was  fresh  and  well  assorted.  It  gave  the  idea  of 
richness  which  was  vowed  by  choice  to  simplicity.  But 
where  her  soul  and  her  generosity  gave  even  more  illusion 
as  to  her  means,  was  when  she  met  with  suffering  and 
miserable  humanity  ;  never  did  a  poor  person  go  to  her  with- 
out receiving  aid.  "  Ah  !  if  I  were  only  Lord  Clive  ! "  she 
would  say  on  hearing  of  some  imfortunate  whom  she  was 
unable  to  help.  . 

All  forms  of  misfortune  had  rights  over  the  soul  of  Eliza. 
By  her  manner  of  pitying  those  who  bore  them  it  was  plain 
to  see  that  she  had  suffered  herself.  I  have  often  seen  her 
ill,  oppressed,  sinking  under  the  weight  of  her  own  troubles, 
yet  reviving  and  recovering  her  strength  to  feel  and  share 
the  troubles  of  others.  And  this  love  for  the  unhappy  was 
not  only  a  virtue  in  her,  it  was  a  passion.  Here  is  what  she 
wrote  me,  about  six  months  ago,  in  a  letter  I  have  just  found 
and  wet  with  my  tears  :  — 

"I  sent  you  a  packet  this  morning;  you  will  think  me 
crazy  when  you  find  in  it  among  other  things,  the  '  Gazette 
de  France,'  but  I  send  it  on  account  of  an  article  which 
will  do  you  good  [the  aunouncement  of  the  edict  about  the 
corvees].  How  can  one  fail  to  be  comforted  in  seeing  that 
so  many,  many  unfortunates  are  about  to  be  so.  This  class 
of  interest  is  now  all  that  can  reach  my  heart.  Unhappiness 
—  ah !  what  empire  that  word  has  over  me  !     I  think  I  told 


324  EULOGY  OF  ELIZA, 

you  tliat  I  had  beeu  to  the  Invalides  a  few  days  ago  with 
the  Duchesse  de  Chatillou ;  T  came  away  heart-broken.  I 
did  not  make  one  step  without  seeing  the  most  painful  sights  : 
blind  and  mutilated  men,  frightful  wounds,  broken  limbs. 
'Ah!  my  God!'  I  thought,  'all  that  breathe  here  suffer; 
and  their  woes  are  not  the  ills  of  imagination ;  these  are  not 
those  who  love  and  torture  one  another  in  loving ;  this  is  not 
pain  at  privation  of  letters,  not  even  regret  for  having  lost 
that  which  was  dearest  to  them ;  these  are  bodily  ills  to 
which  all  men  are  equally  subject ! '  And  then  I  added,  to 
myself :  '  yet  I  am  more  unhappy  than  all  whom  I  see  here ; 
for  I  could  pity,  could  console,  could  relieve  these  unfortu- 
nates with  succour  and  money,  )jut  they  can  do  nothing  for 
me ;  they  know  not  even  the  language  of  the  ills  I  suffer ; 
and  all  there  is  of  happiness,  and  kinds  of  happiness  upon 
earth,  if  all  were  offered  to  me,  could  do  me  -no  good.' " 

Oh,  Eliza !  Eliza !  how  feeble,  how  impe'rfect  is  this  poor 
sketch  of  thee !  Is  there  an  exquisite  feeling,  a  rare  virtue 
that  honours  humanity,  which  was  not  in  thy  heart  ?  If  I  do 
anything  that  is  good,  honourable,  if  I  attain  to  anything  that 
is  great  it  will  be  because  thy  memory  still  perfects  and  still 
inspires  my  soul.  Oh,  you  who  were  her  friends,  and  whom 
I  have,  through  her,  the  right  to  call  my  own,  let  us  all 
address  to  her  memory  the  same  invocation.  In  Eliza's 
name  let  us  be  friends,  let  us  be  dear  to  one  another,  let  us 
do  in  presence  of  her  memory  the  good  we  should  have 
wished  to  do  in  her  li\dng  presence ;  so  that  from  heaven, 
where  her  soul  has  doubtless  risen,  she  may  see  it  and  ap- 
plaud, and  men  on  earth,  beholding  it,  may  say  of  each : 
"  He  was  Eliza's  friend."  Let  that  eulogy  be  graven  on  our 
tombs. 

I  speak  of  tombs,  and  it  is  of  hers  that  we  now  must 
think.     Ah  1   let  her  mortal  remains  consume  away  in  the 


MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  325 

vault  of  some  temple ;  it  is  not  there  that  we  must  raise  her 
monument ;  it  is  not  there  that  her  Shade  will  love  to 
wander.  Banks  of  the  Savonni^re,  meadows  of  Vaucluse, 
regions  where  the  souls  of  Laura  and  La  Suze  still  breathe, 
ye  are  too  far  away  from  us.  Let  us  rather  choose  some 
solitary  grove,  through  which  a  rivulet,  gently  flowing  o'er 
its  pebbles,  shall  murmur  ever  in  its  plaintive  tones.  Come, 
we  will  raise  a  monument,  simple  as  herself,  a  marble  column, 
broken  off  breast-high,  o'er  which  the  cypresses  shall  stretch 
their  melancholy  arms  —  But  no !  it  is  the  tomb  of  the 
sinner  that  needs  to  go  beyond  the  sight  of  men.  Let  us 
choose  for  her  beside  some  travelled  road  a  little  hill,  planted 
with  shrubs,  at  foot  of  which  a  limpid  spring  shall  gush ;  a 
path,  all  green,  shall  lead  there ;  so  that  the  weary  traveller, 
finding  shade  and  water,  may  rest  him  with  delight  and 
bless  her  memory,  still,  like  herself,  beneficent ;  and  on  her 
tomb  be  these  words  graven  :  — 

To  the  Memory 

of  Claire-FraiKjoise  de  Lespinasse, 

Taken  May  23,  1776, 

From  her  friends,  whose  happiness  she  made  ; 

From  a  choice  Society  of  which  she  was  the  boi)d  ; 

From  Letters  which  she  cuUivated  without  pretension  : 

From  the  Unhappy,  whom  she  never  approached  without 

consoling  them. 
She  died  at  the  age  of  42  years.     But  if  to  think,  to  love, 
o  suflfer,  is  that  which  composes  life,  she  lived  in  those  few  years 
many  centuries. 


TO  THE  MANES  OF  MLLE.  DE 
LESPINASSE. 

By   D'ALEMBERT. 

July  22,  1776. 

0  YOU  who  can  no  longer  hear  me,  you  I  have  so  tenderly 
and  so  constantly  loved,  you  by  whom  I  thought  for  a  while  I 
was  beloved,  you  whom  I  preferred  to  all  things,  you  who 
could  have  been  to  me  all  things  had  you  so  willed  it ;  alas ! 
if  you  still  can  feel,  in  that  abode  of  death  for  which  you 
longed  and  which  will  soon  be  mine,  behold  my  sorrow  and 
my  tears,  the  solitude  of  my  soul,  the  awful  void  which  you 
have  caused,  the  cruel  abandonment  in  which  you  have  left 
me ! 

But  why  speak  to  you  of  the  solitude  in  which  I  am,  since 
you  are  no  more  ?  Ah  !  my  unjust  and  cruel  friend,  had  you 
willed  it  that  crushing  solitude  might  have  begun  for  me 
while  you  still  existed.  Why  did  you  repeat  to  me,  ten 
months  before  your  death,  that  I  was  always  what  you  treas- 
ured most,  the  object  most  necessary  to  your  happiness,  the 
only  one  which  bound  you  to  life,  when  you  were  on  the  eve 
of  proving  to  me,  so  cruelly,  the  contrary  ?  For  what  reason, 
which  I  can  neither  imagine  nor  suspect,  did  that  feeling,  so 
tender  for  me,  which  perhaps  you  felt  at  the  time  you  as- 
sured me  of  it,  change  suddenly  to  estrangement  and  aver- 
sion ?  What  had  I  done  to  displease  you  ?  A^Tiy  did  you 
not  complain  to  me  if  you  had  anything  to  complain  of? 
You  would  have  seen  to  the  bottom  of  my  heart,  that  heart 


1776]  MLLE.  DE   LESPINASSE.  327 

which  has  never  ceased  to  be  yours,  not  even  when  you 
doubted  it  and  repulsed  it  harshly.  Or,  my  dear  Julie,  had 
you  (for  I  could  never  do  wi'ong  by  you)  —  had  you  done  me 
some  wrong  of  which  I  was  ignorant,  and  which  it  would 
have  been  so  sweet  to  pardon  had  I  known  of  it  ?  You  said 
to  one  of  my  friends,  who  reproached  you  for  the  way  in 
which  you  treated  me,  and  for  which  you  blamed  yourself, 
that  the  reason  of  your  change  to  me  was  because  you 
were  unable  to  bare  your  soul  to  me  and  let  me  see  the 
wounds  that  rent  it.  Ah !  you  knew  by  experience  that  I 
had  closed  them  more  than  once,  of  whatever  nature  they 
were. 

But  why  did  I  not  discover  myself  the  pain  you  felt  at 
being  unable  to  speak  to  me  of  your  sorrows  ?  Why  did  I 
not  forestall  your  confidence,  and  assist  by  all  of  mine  the 
outpouring  that  you  desired  to  make  to  me  ?  Twenty  times 
have  I  been  upon  the  point  of  throwing  myself  into  your  arms 
and  asking  you  to  tell  me  what  was  my  crime ;  but  I  feared 
that  those  arms  would  repulse  mine  that  I  held  out  to*  you. 
Your  countenance,  your  words,  your  silence  even,  all  seemed 
to  forbid  me  to  approach  you.  I  thought  sometimes  to  recall 
you  by  my  tears,  but  the  sad  state  of  your  suffering  and  de- 
stroyed body  made  me  fear  to  depress  you. 

For  nine  months  I  sought  the  moment  to  tell  you  all 
I  suffered  and  all  I  felt ;  but  during  those  nine  months  I 
always  found  you  too  feeble  to  bear  the  tender  reproaches  I 
had  to  make  to  you.  The  only  moment  when  I  could  have 
shown  to  you,  uncovered,  my  dejected  and  dismayed  heart 
was  that  dreadful  moment  when,  a  few  hours  before  your 
death,  you  asked  me,  in  that  heart-rending  manner,  for  par- 
don, —  last  testimony  of  your  love,  the  dear  and  cruel  memory 
of  which  will  ever  remain  in  the  depths  of  my  heart.  But 
you  had  then  no  longer  the  strength  to  either  speak  to  me  or 


328  TO   THK   MANES   OF  [1776 

hear  nie  ;  1  was  forced,  like  Phbdre,  to  deprive  myself  of  tears 
which  would  have  troubled  your  last  moments ;  and  thus  I 
lost,  without  recovery,  the  moment  of  my  life  which  would 
have  been  to  me  most  precious,  —  that  (jf  telling  you,  once 
more,  how  dear  you  were  t(j  me,  how  much  I  shared  your 
woes,  and  how  deeply  I  desired  to  end  my  own  with  you.  I 
would  give  all  the  moments  that  remain  to  me  to  live  for 
that  one  instant  which  I  can  never  have  again,  that  instant 
when  by  showing  you  aU  the  tenderness  of  my  heart,  I  might 
perhaps  have  recovered  yours  — 

But  you  are  gone !  you  have  descended  into  the  gi-ave  con- 
vinced that  my  regrets  do  not  follow  you  !  Ah !  if  you  had 
only  expressed  some  grief  at  ]»arting  from  me,  with  what  de- 
light would  I  have  followed  y<iu  to  that  eternal  haven  which 
you  now  inhabit !  But  I  dare  not  even  ask  to  be  laid  beside 
you  when  death  has  closed  my  eyes  and  stanched  my  tears ; 
I  should  fear  lest  your  Shade  would  still  repulse  me  and  pro- 
long my  anguish  beyond  this  life. 

Alas !  you  have  taken  from  me  everything  —  the  sweet- 
ness of  life,  the  sweetness  of  even  death.  Cruel  and  unhappy 
friend !  it  seems  as  if  in  cliaiging  me  with  the  execution  of 
j'our  last  wishes  you  wished  to  add  still  further  to  my  pain. 
AVhy  have  the  duties  thus  imposed  upon  me  told  me  what 
I  ought  not  to  have  known,  and  what  I  should  have  desired 
not  to  know  ?  Why  did  you  not  order  me  to  burn  unread 
that  fatal  manuscript  [probably  the  Memoir  of  herself  after 
her  connection  with  M.  de  Mora],  which  I  believed  I  could 
read  without  finding  subjects  of  pain,  but  which  revealed 
to  me  that  for  eight  years  at  least  I  was  not  the  first  object 
of  your  heart,  in  spite  of  assurances  you  had  so  often  given 
me  ?  What  can  assure  me  now,  after  that  grievous  dis- 
covery, that  during  the  eight  or  ten  other  years  when  I 
believed  myself  so   much   beloved   by  you,  you  were  not 


1776]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  329 

even  then  betraying  my  tenderness  ?  Alas !  have  I  not 
reason  to  think  it,  when  I  found  that  among  the  vast  mul- 
titude of  letters  which  you  charged  me  to  burn,  you  had  not 
kept  a  single  one  of  mine  ?  By  what  ill  fate  for  me  had 
they  become  so  uiditferent  to  you,  in  spite  of  the  expressions 
of  sensibility,  self-abandonment,  devotion  with  which  they 
were  filled  ?  \^'^hy,  in  your  will,  of  which  you  made  me  the 
unhappy  executor,  did  you  leave  to  another  what  would  have 
been  to  me  so  dear,  —  those  manuscripts  in  which  there  were 
many  things,  written  by  my  hand  as  well  as  yours,  which 
would  have  brought  you  back  to  me  incessantly  ?  What  can 
have  chilled  you  to  that  degree  towards  the  unfortunate  man 
to  whom  you  said,  ten  years  ago,  that  your  feeling  for  him 
made  you  so  happy  that  it  frightened  you  ?  .  .  . 

But  why  reproach  you  now,  when  you  cannot  justify  your- 
self if  you  do  not  deserve  it  ?  Why  trouble  your  ashes  with 
my  regrets  when  you  can  no  longer  solace  them  ?  Adieu, 
adieu  forever !  my  dear  and  unfortunate  Julie !  Those  two 
titles  affect  me  far  more  than  your  faults  towards  me  can 
offend  me.  Enjoy  at  last,  and,  to  my  sorrow,  enjoy  without 
me,  that  repose  which  ni}-  love  and  my  cares  were  unable  to 
procure  for  you  during  life.  Alas !  why  were  you  unable  to 
love  or  to  be  loved  m  peace  ?  You  said  to  me  so  many 
times,  and  you  owned  it,  sighing,  a  few  months  before  you 
died,  that,  of  all  the  feelings  you  had  inspired,  mine  for  you, 
and  yours  for  me  were  the  only  ones  that  had  not  made  you 
unhappy.  Why  did  not  that  feeling  satisfy  you  ?  Why 
was  it  that  love,  made  to  soften  all  the  other  ills  of  life, 
should  have  been  the  torture  and  the  despair  of  yours  ? 
Why,  when  I  gave  you  my  portrait  a  year  ago  with  the 
words,  — 

"And  tell  yourself  sometimes,  in  looking  at  me  : 

*  Of  all  those  who  love  me  who  loves  me  as  he  ? '  "  — 


330  TO   THE   MANES   OF  [1776 

why,  I  say,  did  you  uot  see  all  that  I  still  was  for  you,  all 
that  I  wished  to  be  ?  Wliy  did  you  think  these  words  mere 
"  kindness ; "  why  did  you  praise  them  with  that  cruel  term  ? 
But  above  all,  why  did  you  think  that  happiness  and  tran- 
quillity were  not  for  you  except  in  death  ? 

Alas !  if  there  still  lives  something  of  you,  may  you  enjoy 
that  happiness  of  which  your  life  let  me  taste  so  little  and 
your  death  makes  me  lose  forever.  You  have  taught  me,  my 
dear  Julie,  that  the  greatest  unhappiness  is  not  to  mourn 
those  we  love,  but  to  mourn  those  who  have  ceased  to  love 
us,  Alas !  I  have  lost  with  you  sixteen  years  of  my  life ; 
who  will  till  and  console  the  few  remaining  years  of  it  ?  0 
you,  whoever  you  may  be  who  could  stanch  my  tears,  in 
whatever  region  of  the  earth  you  are  I  would  seek  you  with 
joy.  Ah  !  hear  my  sighs,  behold  my  heart,  and  come  to  me, 
or  call  me  to  you.  Deliver  me  from  the  crushing  situation 
in  which  I  am,  the  dreadful  loneliness  which  makes  me  say 
each  time  that  I  return  to  my  sad  dwelling :  "  No  one  is 
waiting  for  me ;  no  one  will  wait  for  me  again."  .  .  . 

All  things,  even  our  common  fate  seemed  destined  to 
unite  us.  Both  without  family,  without  relatives,  having 
experienced  from  the  moment  of  our  birth  neglect,  misfor- 
tune, and  injustice,  —  Nature  seemed  to  have  put  us  in  the 
world  to  seek  each  other  out,  like  two  reeds  beaten  by  the 
wind  which  cling  together  and  support  each  other.  Why 
did  you  seek  for  other  supports  ?  Soon,  to  your  sorrow,  those 
supports  failed  you ;  you  died  belie\dng  yourself  alone  in 
the  world,  when  you  had  but  to  stretch  out  your  hand  to 
take  what  was  so  near,  but  which  you  would  not  see.  Ah ! 
if  your  life  had  been  prolonged,  perhaps  Nature,  which  had 
made  us  for  each  other,  would  have  brought  us  together  never 
to  part  again.  Perhaps  you  would  have  felt  —  for  your  soul, 
though  too  ardent,  is  honest  —  how  necessary  I  was  to  you 


1776]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  331 

through  the  very  need  that  I  have  of  you.  Perhaps  you 
would  have  ceased  to  reproach  yourself,  as  you  have  some- 
times done  in  moments  of  calmness  and  justice,  for  not  being 
happy  though  loved  as  you  were  by  me. 

But  —  you  are  no  more ;  I  am  alone  in  the  universe ! 
Nothing  remains  to  me  but  the  dreadful  consolation  of  those 
who  have  no  other,  —  that  melancholy  which  likes  to  drink 
its  tears  and  shed  them  without  seeking  others  to  share  its 
gloom.  Adieu,  my  dear  Julie,  adieu ;  for  these  eyes,  which 
I  would  gladly  close  forever,  are  filled  with  tears  as  I  write 
these  lines,  and  can  see  no  longer  the  paper  on  which  1  writ 
them. 


LETTERS 

FROM   THE   KING   OF   PRUSSIA,    VOLTAIRE,    AND 

D'ALEMBERT,  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  MLLE.  DE 

LESPINASSE. 

From  the  King  of  Prussia  to  d'Alembert. 

Potsdam,  July  9,  1776. 

I  SYMPATHIZE  with  your  misfortune  in  losing  a  person  to 
whom  you  were  attached.  The  wounds  of  the  heart  are  the 
keenest  of  all;  and  in  spite  of  the  tine  maxims  of  philoso- 
phers, nothing  but  time  will  cure  them.  Man  is  an  animal 
more  feeling  than  reasonable.  I  have  experienced,  to  my 
sorrow  and  only  too  well,  what  one  suffers  from  such  losses. 
The  best  remedy  is  to  compel  one's  self  against  one's  will  to 
distract  the  mind  from  sorrowful  ideas,  which  would  other- 
wise root  too  deeply  in  the  soul.  It  is  well  to  choose  a  geo- 
metric occupation  which  requires  application,  and  so  put 
aside  as  best  we  can  the  dreadful  ideas  that  ceaselessly 
return  and  must  be  evaded  as  much  as  possible.  I  propose 
to  you  the  best  remedy  that  is  known  to  me.  Cicero,  to  con- 
sole himself  for  the  death  of  his  dear  Tullia,  threw  himself 
into  composition,  and  vsrrote  many  treatises,  some  of  which 
have  come  down  to  us.  Our  reason  is  too  weak  to  conquer 
the  pain  of  a  mortal  wound;  we  must  grant  something  to 
nature,  and  say  to  ourselves,  especially  at  your  age  and  mine, 
that  we  ought  to  be  comforted  by  the  thought  that  it  cannot 
be  long  before  we  rejoin  the  ones  we  regi'et. 

I  accept  with  pleasure  the  hope  you  give  me  of  coming  to 
spend  some  months  of  the  following  year  with  me.     If  I  can, 


1776]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  333 

I  will  efface  from  your  mind  the  sad  and  melancholy  ideas 
that  this  fatal  event  has  piit  there.  We  will  philosophize 
together  on  the  nothingness  of  life,  on  the  folly  of  men,  on 
the  vanity  of  stoicism  and  of  all  our  being.  These  are  inex- 
haustible topics  with  which  to  compose  many  in-folios. 
Nevertheless,  I  beg  you  to  make  all  the  efforts  of  which  you 
are  capable  to  prevent  the  excess  of  pain  from  injuring  your 
health,  about  which  I  interest  myself  too  much  to  think  of 
it  with  indifference. 

D'Alembert  to  the  King  of  Prussia. 

Paris,  August  15,  1776. 

My  soul  and  pen  have  no  expression  to  testify  to  your 
Majesty  the  deep  and  tender  gratitude  with  which  the  letter 
you  have  deigned  to  write  to  me  has  filled  me,  —  a  letter  so 
full  of  truth  and  interest,  feeling  and  reason  combined. 
Permit  me.  Sire,  this  expression  of  friendship —  for  why 
should  I.  not  venture  to  use  with  a  great  king  the  word 
which  makes  that  great  king  so  dear  to  my  heart  ?  I  should 
not  have  delayed  a  moment  in  replying  to  this  fresh  mark, 
so  touching  for  me,  of  the  kindness  with  which  your  Majesty 
honours  me,  and  in  reiterating  to  you  more  warmly  than 
ever  the  expression  of  feelings  which  I  owe  to  you,  if  that 
expression  would  not  have  drawn  me,  in  spite  of  myself,  into 
fresh  paroxysms  of  sorrow  ;  which  your  Majesty  would  doubt- 
less have  pardoned,  but  which  might  have  troubled  the  sweet 
and  proper  satisfaction  which  your  Majesty  is  now  enjoying. 
The  newspapers  announce  the  visit  of  the  Grand-duke  of 
Russia  to  Berlin,  and  the  union  that  you  are  about  to  con- 
tract with  that  young  prince,  so  worthy,  it  is  said,  for  his 
rare  qualities,  to  unite  himself  with  you.  [The  Grand-duke 
Paul  married  the  niece  of  Frederick  the  Great.]  I  have 
waited  for  his  departure  to  pour  my  soul  once  more  into  that 


334  LETTERS   ON  THE   DEATH   OF  [1776 

of  your  Majesty,  and  above  all  to  return  you  thanks  for  a 
letter  which  is  so  little  that  of  a  king  that  it  is  all  the  more 
precious  and  dear  to  me. 

Your  Majesty  has  no  need  to  tell  me  that  you  have  "  felt 
to  your  sorrow,  and  only  too  well,  what  we  suffer  in  losing 
that  which  we  love."  It  can  be  seen.  Sire,  that  you  have 
experienced  that  cruel  anguish  by  the  feeling  and  truthful 
manner  in  which  you  speak  to  an  afflicted  heart  and  tell  it 
that  which  is  best  adapted  to  its  deplorable  condition.  All 
my  friends  are  seeking,  like  you,  to  comfort  me  ;  they  all 
tell  me,  like  you,  to  distract  my  mind,  but  none  have 
thought  to  add,  as  you  have  done,  that  "  our  reason  is  too 
weak  to  conquer  the  pain  of  a  mortal  wound ;  we  must 
grant  something  to  nature  and  say  to  ourselves,  especially 
at  your  age  and  mine,  that  it  will  not  be  long  before  we 
rejoin  the  object  of  our  affections."  Alas  !  Sire,  that  is  the 
only  hope  that  comforts  me,  or  rather,  which  makes  me  able 
to  endure  the  few  remaining  days  I  have  to  live.  .  .  . 

I  wrote  a  few  years  since  to  your  Majesty,  at  a  time  when 
my  frail  body  was  daily  growing  feebler,  that  I  desired 
nothing  more  upon  my  tomb  than  a  stone  with  these  words : 
"  The  Great  Frederick  honoured  him  with  his  kindness  and 
his  benefits."  That  stone  and  those  words  are  to-day  more 
than  ever  my  desire  :  life,  fame,  even  study,  all  have  become 
indiff'erent  and  tasteless  to  me  ;  I  feel  nothing  but  the  soli- 
tude of  my  soul,  the  void  in  my  life.  My  brain,  fatigued 
and  almost  exhausted  by  forty  years  of  profound  meditation, 
is  to-day  deprived  of  the  resource  which  has  so  often  soothed 
my  troubles.  I  am  left  alone,  abandoned  to  my  melancholy ; 
and  nature,  blighted  for  me,  off"ers  me  no  object  of  attach- 
ment, nor  even  one  of  occupation. 

But,  Sire,  why  talk  to  you  of  my  woes  when  you  have  to 
comfort  those  of  so  many  others  ?  .  .  . 


1776]  Mlle.  de  lespinasse.  335 

The  King  of  Prussia  to  d' Alembert. 

Potsdam,  September  7,  1776. 
Your  letter,  my  dear  d'Alembert,  reached  me  on  my  re- 
tm-n  from  Silesia.  I  see  that  your  tender  heart  is  still 
sensitive,  and  I  do  not  blame  you.  Tlie  powers  of  our  souls 
have  their  limits,  and  we  must  exact  nothing  from  them  that 
is  not  possible.  If  a  very  strong  and  robust  man  were 
required  to  upset  the  Louvre  by  applying  his  shoulder,  he 
could  not  do  it ;  but  give  him  a  stone  of  a  hundred  pounds 
to  move,  and  the  result  is  certain.  It  is  the  same  thiacr  with 
reason  ;  it  can  conquer  obstacles  proportioned  to  its  strength, 
but  there  are  others  that  force  it  to  give  way.  Nature  has 
made  us  feeling ;  philosophy  can  never  make  us  do  the  im- 
possible :  and  suppose  it  could,  that  would  be  harmful  to 
society ;  the  result  would  be  no  compassion  for  the  troubles 
of  others ;  the  human  species  would  end  in  becoming  hard 
and  pitiless.  Reason  ought  to  serve  us  in  moderating  what- 
ever is  excessive  in  us,  but  not  in  destroying  the  human 
being  in  the  man. 

Therefore  regret  your  loss,  my  dear  friend ;  I  will  even 
add  that  the  losses  of  friendship  are  irreparable  ;  and  that 
whoever  is  capable  of  appreciating  things  as  they  are  must 
judge  you  worthy  of  having  true  friends  because  you  know 
how  to  love. 

But  as  it  is  above  the  powers  of  man,  and  even  of  the 
gods,  to  change  the  past,  you  ought  to  try  to  preserve  your- 
self for  the  friends  who  remain  to  you,  in  order  not  to  cause 
them  the  mortal  grief  of  losing  you.  I  have  had  friends, 
both  men  and  women  ;  I  have  lost  five  or  six,  and  I  thouglit 
to  die  of  my  grief.  By  a  mere  chance  these  losses  fell  upon 
me  during  the  different  wars  in  which  I  have  been  en- 
gaged, —  a  time    in   which    1    was   continually   obliged   to 


336  LETTERS   ON  THE   DEATH   OF  [1776 

make  and  chauge  my  arrangements.  Those  inevitable  dis- 
tractions did,  perhaps,  prevent  me  fnjin  succumbing  to  my 
grief.  I  strongly  wish  that  some  very  difficult  pnjblem  to 
solve  could  be  proposed  to  you,  which  would  force  you  to 
think  of  other  things.  There  is,  in  truth,  no  remedy  but 
that  and  time.  We  aie  like  rivers  that  keep  their  name 
while  their  waters  are  forever  changing.  When  a  part  of 
the  molecules  that  compose  us  are  replaced  by  others,  the 
memory  of  objects  which  gave  us  pleasui-e  or  grief  is  weak- 
ened, because,  really,  we  are  n(jt  the  same  men}  time  is 
renewing  us  incessantly.  This  is  a  thought  for  the  un- 
happy, and  every  one  who  thinks  ought  to  make  use  of  it. 

I  rejoiced  for  myself  at  the  thought  of  seeing  you  here, 
and  now  I  rejoice  for  you ;  y(ju  will  see  new  objects  and 
other  persons.  I  warn  you  that  I  shall  do  all  that  depends 
on  me  to  take  from  your  memory  whatever  may  remind  you 
of  sad  and  grievous  things,  and  I  shall  feel  as  much  joy  in 
tranquillizing-  your  mind  as  I  do  in  winning  a  battle.  Not 
that  I  think  myself  a  great  philosopher,  but  because  I  have 
an  unhappy  experience  of  the  state  in  which  you  are,  and  I 
feel  1  am  in  that  way  better  fitted  than  others  to  tranquillize 
you.  Come,  then,  my  dear  d'Alembert ;  be  sure  of  being  well 
received,  and  of  finding,  not  perfect  remedies  for  your  sor- 
rows, but  lenitives  and  anodynes. 

D'Alembert  to  the  King  of  Prussia, 

Paris,  October  7,  1776. 
Sire,  very  violent  and  continual  headaches  which  for  three 
weeks  have  prevented  me  from  writing  and  thinking  and  are 
the  sad  result  of  my  mental  condition,  have  seemed  to  me 
the  more  cruel  because  they  have  not  permitted  me  to  reply 
sooner  to  the  letter  which  your  Majesty  has  vrritten  to  me 
about  my  grief.     What  a  letter.  Sire  !  and  how  few  —  I  do 


1776]  MLLE.   DE   LESPINASSE.  337 

not  say  kings,  for  they  know  not  such  language,  but  —  friends 
would  know  how  to  speak  as  you  do  to  an  oppressed  and  suf- 
fering soul !  I  read  and  reread  daily  a  letter  so  fitted  to 
soothe  my  trouble ;  I  have  read  it  to  my  friends  who  are, 
like  me,  full  of  gratitude  to  your  Majesty,  and  I  say  to 
myself  as  I  read  it,  and  after  reading  it,  "  That  great  prince 
is  right,"  but  I  continue,  nevertheless,  to  grieve.  Your 
Majesty  must  not  be  surprised  or  give  up  hope  of  my  cure, 
though  I  myself  see  none  as  yet.  Objects  of  deep  study 
would  be  the  only  means  of  bringing  it  about ;  your  Majesty 
suggests  with  as  much  kindness  as  wisdom  that  powerful 
remedy ;  but  my  poor  brain  is  no  longer  capable  of  using  it. 
It  is  to  time  alone  that  I  can  look  for  some  relief  to  my  dis- 
tress ;  and  1  fear  that  cruel  time  will  destroy  rather  than 
cure  me. 

The  comparison  that  your  Majesty  makes  between  our  un- 
happy individuality  and  the  rivers  which  ever  change  though 
preserving  their  names,  is  as  ingenious  as  it  is  philosophical, 
and  explains  with  as  much  reason  as  wit  why  time  should 
console  us ;  but  at  present.  Sire,  my  sad  river  feels  only  the 
pain  of  flowing,  and  sees  no  hope  of  a  peaceful  and  happier 
current.  If  I  were  twenty -five  years  younger  I  might  per- 
haps have  the  happiness  of  forming  another  attachment 
which  would  make  life  endurable  to  me;  but.  Sire,  I  am 
nearly  sixty  years  of  age,  and  at  that  time  of  life  we  cannot 
replace  the  friends  we  have  the  misfortune  to  lose.  I  feel 
this  the  more  at  this  moment  in  an  afflicting  manner  through 
a  fresh  loss  with  which  I  am  threatened.  .  .  .  An  excellent 
woman,  full  of  intelligence  and  virtue,  .  .  .  Mme.  Geoffrin, 
who  for  thirty  years  has  shown  me  the  tenderest  friendship, 
and  who  quite  recently  has  given  to  my  sorrow  all  the  con- 
solations and  distractions  that  her  friendship  could  imagine, 
has  been  struck  down  with  paralysis.  ...  I  thus  lose  in  the 

22 


338  LETTERS   ON   THE   DEATH   OF  [1776 

space  of  a  few  months  the  two  persons  1  loved  best  and  by 
whom  I  was  best  loved.  There,  Sire,  is  the  sorrowful  condi- 
tion in  wliich  I  am,  my  heart  dejected  and  withered,  and  I 
myself  not  knowing  what  to  do  with  my  soul  or  my  time. 

Voltaire  to  d'Alembert. 

June  10,  1776. 

This  is  the  moment,  my  dear  friend,  when  philosophy  is 
very  necessary  to  you.  I  have  heard  very  late,  and  not 
through  you,  of  the  loss  you  have  met  with.  IJere  is  your 
whole  life  changed.  It  will  be  very  difficult  to  accustom 
yourself  to  sucli  a  privation.  They  tell  me  that  the  lodging 
you  have  in  the  Louvre  is  very  gloomy.  I  fear  for  your 
health.  Com-age  serves  for  combat,  but  it  does  not  serve  to 
console  us,  or  make  us  happy.  .  .  . 

D'Alembert  to  Voltaire. 

June  24, 1776. 

I  did  not  tell  you  of  my  misfortune,  my  very  dear  and 
worthy  master,  tirst,  because  I  had  not  the  strength  to  write, 
and  next,  because  I  was  sure  that  our  mutual  friends  would 
tell  you  of  it. 

I  shall  not  feel  the  help  of  philosophy  until  nature  suc- 
ceeds in  restoring  to  me  the  sleep  and  the  appetite  I  have 
lost.  My  life  and  my  soul  are  in  the  void ;  the  abyss  of 
doubts  in  which  I  am  seems  to  me  bottomless.  I  try  to 
shake  myself,  to  distract  myself,  but  hitherto  without  suc- 
cess. I  have  not  been  able  to  occupy  my  mind  during  the 
last  month  since  this  dreadful  sorrow,  except  with  a  Eulogy 
which  I  read  to  the  Academy  at  La  Harpe's  reception.  ,  .  . 
But  that  success  has  only  increased  my  affliction,  because  it 
will  be  unknown  forever  to  my  unhappy  friend,  who  would 
have  taken  such  interest  in  it. 


1776]  MLLE.  DE  LESPlNASSE.  339 

Adieu,  my  dear  master ;  when  my  poor  soul  is  calmer,  less 
blighted,  I  will  speak  to  you  of  other  giiefs  which  we  share 
in  common ;  but  at  this  moment  they  are  stifled  by  a  sorrow 
more  keen,  more  piercing.  Take  care  of  your  health  and 
continue  to  love  tuum  ex  animo. 


INDEX. 


Agcesseau  (The  Chevalier  d),  54,  56, 
61,  62,  76,  89,  127,  166. 

Aix  (The  Archbishop  of),  141,  152. 

Albon  (The  Cointesse  d'),  3,  22,  311. 

Alembert  (Jeau-Le-Koud  d'),  4,  5,  18, 
21,  28-30,32,33,39,40,  61,  84,89,  91, 
106,  114,  118,  122,  136,  141,  143,  155, 
161,  162,  177,  179,  207,  209,  210,  222, 
223,  241,  244,  248,  253,  299,  326,  332- 
339. 

Anlezy  (J.  P.  de  Damas,  Comte  d'),  28. 

Anville  (The  Duchesse  d'),  99,  154, 
244. 

Akgenson  (Marc-Pierre,  Comte  d'),  65, 
154. 

BARRiiKE  (de  Vieuzac),  2. 
Beauvau  (Prince  de),  33,  89. 
Bernis  (Cardinal  de),  135,  316. 
BouFFLERS  (Marie  Christine,  Comtesse 

de),  64,  73.  89,  108,  12.3,  152,  1.58,  167, 

168,  219,  265. 
Breteuil  (Baron  de),  265. 
Brienne  (Lomc'nie  de).  Archbishop  of 

Toulouse,  118,  141,  156,  270. 
BuKFON  (Georges-Louis-LeClerc  Comte 

de),  36. 

Caraccioli  (Marquis  de),  82,  244. 
Catherine  II.,  Empress  of  Russia,  173, 

179. 
Chastellux  (Francois-Jean,  Chevalier 

de),  18,  28,  76,  84,  88,  89,  127,  160, 

179,  180,  275. 
Chatillon  (Duchesse  de),  28,  163, 174, 

186,  202,  210,  219. 
Choisell  (fetienne-Fran9oi3  Due  de), 

29,  123,  155. 


Clement  XIV.  (Pope),  150. 
CoNDORCET  ( Marie- Jean- Antoine-Nico- 

las.  Marquis  de),  18,  21,  155,  176,  206, 

210,  238,  294,  297,  298. 

"  CoNSETABLE    DE    BODRBON,"    53,    69, 

73,  94,  232,  250. 
Courcelles  (Alexandrine  des   Hayes 

de  Boutinon,  Mile,  de),  Comtesse  de 

Guibert,  113,  218,  254,  256,  278. 
Creutz  (Comte  de),  176,  184,  193,  212, 

256. 

Deffand  (Marie  de  Vichy-Chamrond, 
Marquise  du),  3,  4,  22,  23,  25-28,  33, 
82,  141,  243,  244,304. 

Diderot  (Denis),  33,  47,  61,  173,  179. 

DoRAT  (Jean),  37,  38,  70. 

Droz  and  his  automatons,  202. 

DuPLESSis  (Joseph-Silfrede),  157. 

DuRAS  (Mare'chal  Due  de),  222. 

"  Eulogy  of  Catiuat,"  by  M.  de  Guibert, 
199,  220,  227,  232,  235-237,  240,  245- 
247. 

"  Eulogy  of  La  Fontaine,"  by  d' Alem- 
bert, 135,  173,  237. 

"  Eulogy  of  Eliza,"  by  M.  de  Guibert, 
310-335. 

FoNTENELLE  (Bernard  le  Bovier),  170. 
Frederick  the  Great,  King  of  Prus- 
sia, 55,  63,  69,  70,  81,  332-338. 
FuENTiis  (Comte  de),  62,  142,  143,  162. 

Geoffrin  (Marie  Therfese,  Mme.),  32, 

33,  84,91,  189,  291,337. 
Gluck  (Christoph  Wilibald  von),  138, 

157,  202. 


342 


INDEX. 


Grimm  (Friedrich  Melchior,  Baron),  21, 

33,  35,  37,  173, 
GuiBEKT  (Cotnte  de),  7-10,  14;  letters 

to  him  42  el  seq. ;  his  inarriiige,  224  et 

seq. ;   his  Eulogy  on  Mile,  de  Lespi- 

nasse,  310-325. 

Helvetius  (Claude-Adrien),  78. 
Henault  (l'resideut),33,  141,  154. 

KocK  (Baruu  de),  70,  176. 

La  IIaupe  (Jean-Frau9ois  de),  21,31, 
234,  235-237,  246,  247. 

LAN90N  (painter),  190. 

Lkspinas.sk  (Julie-Jeanne-Eleonorede), 
Saiiite-Beuve's  estimate  oi  her,  1-20; 
publication  of  her  letters,  certain  let- 
ters not  hers,  1,2;  her  birth,  21  ;  edu- 
cation, 22  ;  unhappy  position  after  her 
mother's  death,  23  ;  generous  conduct 
as  to  money,  24 ;  letters  to  her  from 
Mme.  du  l)effaud,  25,  26;  goes  to 
live  with  Mme.  du  Deffaud,  27  ;  rup- 
ture between  them,  establishes  an  in- 
dependent salon,  28;  relations  with 
d'Alembert,  29,  30,  39  ;  description  of 
her  person  by  her  friends,  31 ,  32 ;  her 
salon,  32 ;  what  it  was,  and  her 
management  of  it,  described  by  those 
who  frequented  it,  33-38;  her  influ- 
ence on  the  French  Academy,  37,  38 ; 
the  struggle  of  her  double  love  for 
M.  de  Mora  and  M.  de  Guibert,  7,  10, 
38;  her  death,  40;  letters  to  M.  de 
Guibert  during  his  journey  to  Prus- 
sia, 42-89 ;  until  M.  de  Mora's  death, 
89-97 ;  until  M.  de  Guibert's  mar- 
riage, 97-218  ;  from  that  marriage  till 
her  death,  218-298  ;  her  Portrait  by 
d'Alembert,  299-309  ;  her  Eulogy  by 
M.  de  Guibert,  310-325 ;  to  her  Manes, 
by  d'Alembert,  326-331  ;  letters  on 
her  death  from  Frederick  the  Great 
and  Voltaire,  332-339. 

Louis  XV.,  100. 

Louis  XVL,  125,  224. 

Luxembourg  (Duchesse  de),  29. 


Malesherbes  (Chre'tien-Guillaume  de 
Lamoiguon  de),  18,   168,  235. 

Manes  of  Mlle.  ue  Lespi.nasse  (To 
the),  by  d'Alembert,  326-331. 

Mauie-Antoinette  (Dauphine  and 
Queen),  65,  202. 

Makmontel  (Jean-Fran9oi8),  21,  28, 
29,  31,  34,  160,  196,  222. 

Mora  (Gon.salvo,  Marquis  de),  7,  8,52, 
54,  58,  62,  81,  83,  8.5,  86,  92,  9.% 
96,  99,  107,  110.  Ill,  116,  120,  121, 
128-131,  141,  142,  151,  161,  175,  200, 
203,  209,  216,  222,  248,  249,  258,  267, 
274,  282,  284,  313. 

MouELLET  (Abbe  de),  20,  36,  108,  152. 

MouLiN-JoLi,  8,  59. 

Muv  (Marechalde),  140. 

Necker  (Jacques),  78. 

"  Orpheus  and  Eurydice,"  138,  158,  159, 
166. 

PiGNATELLi  (Prince),  220. 

Portrait  of  Mlle.  de  Lespinasse, 

by  d'Alembert,  299-309. 

RiccOBONi  (Mme.),  229,  239. 
Richardson  (Samuel),  239,  316. 
Rougher  (Jean-Antoine),  197,  217. 
Rousseau  (Jean- Jacques),  225. 

Sainte-Beuve    (C.-A.),    on  Mile,  de 

Lespinasse,  1-20. 
Saint-Chamans  ( Vicomte  de),  287, 293. 
Saint-Germain  (Comte  de),  271-273, 

280. 
Shelburne     (Earl    of).    Marquis    of 

Lansdowne,  18,  155,  168, 182,  183. 

Terrai  (Abbe'de),  122,  126,  139,  146. 
TuRGOT  (Robert  Jacques),  18,  122,  125, 

126,  133,  138,  139,  141,  146,  159,  191, 

265,  269. 

Vaines    (M.  de),    127,    133,    139,   146, 

159,  207,  212,  269. 
Vichy-Chamrond   (Marquise  de),   26, 

24. 
Voltaire  (M.  de),  157,  185,  212,  338. 


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Date  Due 


m  WR 


6W 


^j    11981 


M    001339  298 


Library  Bureau  Cat.  No.   1137 


IiR^■\:TXS0•9 

■^totioners, 
-luare, 
>  I'RX. 


3   1210  00297  4986 


